


Absence Makes the Heart Grow Weak

by dramasweety



Series: Becoming Whole Again [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Memory Loss, Reunions, Slavery, mostly angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 78,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4408250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramasweety/pseuds/dramasweety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: He was dead. Alarion was dead for three months, but now he's back. Alive, safe, and with absolutely no idea who anyone is, including himself. That would be hard enough for Dorian to deal with without the elf flinching every time he comes near. What to say? "Hi! You don't remember me, but you once loved me. Please, if you'd be so kind, do so again. I very much miss it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sit back and enjoy the overly angsty mess that I wanted to write. A mix between headcanons of mine, and an overlying plot of, "What if this happened?". I'm planning on updating this every other Friday or so. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later.  
> 

The weight of the quivers on his back was a comforting one. He wanted to laugh at the light feeling of contentment it spread through body at the idea that he was _hunting_ again! Hunting! For his clan! How long had it been? It had to be somewhere close to eighteen months at least.

No, Alarion didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to move like the streams, silent as a breeze.

The undergrowth below him gave little sound as he stepped lightly on it, head bent low as he moved with instinct. Soon, habit took over, forcing every thought in his head to dissipate. He was nothing other than an animal sent to get its prey. Nothing except smooth steps, careful breathing, and eyes scanning for the tracks he knew to be there.

He was close now. Close enough that he could feel his body shivering with anticipation. So very, very close… Reaching behind his back, he nocked an arrow slowly, enjoying the feeling of the fluid motion.

Before he could round the corner where he knew the beast to lie, he heard a snap of a twig behind him. His neck prickled at the feeling of being watched.

A feral growl came low out of his voice as he spun around, arrow ready to fly. Bandits? Venatori? Red Templars?

A couple squeaks of terror greeted him instead as he spotted a group of young elves. Thanking the Creators he hadn’t let the arrow go on instinct, Alarion lowered his weapon with a glare on his face.

“Followed me, did you?”

“ _Ir abelas, lethallin_.” whimpered one of the elves. “We wanted to see _Tarasyl’an Te’las_ hunt. We’ve heard so many stories.”

He blinked a few times. “ _Tarasyl’an Te’las_?” Now there was a title people hadn’t used on him yet.

“It seemed an appropriate name.” explained another. “We heard of the place you now live, and you commanded the sky itself to fix. Many of the clan call you such.”

He blinked a few more times, attempting to wrap his head around it. Finally, he shrugged and mumbled, “Better than ‘Herald of Andraste’ or ‘Your Worship’ anyway.” Speaking to them, he squared his shoulders and said, “Though you made me lose my game, you managed to follow me quite a while before I noticed. Andruil be willing, you will all become great hunters one day.”

The compliment sent their faces reddening and their eyes wide. “ _Ma serannas, lethallin_! _Ma serannas_!”

“Come on then,” Alarion shook his head, trying to remind himself that he would have done the exact same thing when he was their age. “Let’s go back to the clan in Wycome.”

The group chattered endlessly as they walked, mostly discussing his technique. The way they spoke about him was embarrassing. He wished he was used to being seen as a hero. After the morning he woke up to that terrified child bowing to him after he tried to close the Breach for the first time, people have treated him like a character from a children’s story. Perhaps one day the novelty would finally wear off.

Still, it was unexpected they managed to follow him so long without him noticing. Were they that skilled or was he getting rusty? It had been nothing but politics for the last few months for him. It wouldn’t _too_ surprising that his skills were fading from lack of use. He needed to do better.

A small twig snapped behind him again. Confused, Alarion took a step back from the group so he could eye them all. One of the boys noticed and turned to give him a curious glance. “ _Lethallin_?”

“Is this all of you? No one else followed me?”

Taken back by the seriousness of his voice, he hesitated before answering. “Yes! Y-you’re not angry, are you?”

Eyes widening, he heard a small noise of a string being stretched behind him. Without another warning, Alarion jumped forward, grabbing as many of the group down with him. “Get down!” he shrieked.

Above him, a whizzing sound of an arrow flew overhead, in the same spot his shoulder had been. A cry of pain told him that the arrow had hit someone else instead. Furious, a loud growl escaped him as he scrambled up.

It hadn’t had been the elves he heard following him…

Quickly, Alarion was on his feet, glaring as he let loose three quick arrows as he took in the situation. Five young elves he needed to protect; at least one injured; seven men on the ground charging; somewhere around three to five archers; only two injured from Alarion’s attacks.

He killed the closest two men coming towards the group before directing his arrows at the archers he could spot. As his arrow hit its mark, he felt intense pain erupt on his left shoulder. Howling out loud, he turned and let loose another in the direction he was shot.

A cry told him that he had hit his target, but Alarion didn’t pause to see. Quickly, he grabbed the small danger at his waist and buried it into the man appeared by his side. Rouges were quick and silent, but they didn’t take a lot to go down.

As he nocked another arrow, his shoulder ached so terribly that he nearly faltered. Why hadn’t he worn his armor? Even if he had just been hunting…! Ignoring the pain, he shot another, and then another, watching as the first hit a man’s armor, but the second landed squarely into his hand. The man doubled over, howling as he held his hand, but Alarion didn’t have time to finish him off while the man had such a helmet on.

Zip! Another three arrows left his bow, killing another archer afar. Panting, Alarion took a step forward, looking for other archers before the men charging around him could get closer. How many were there left? Where were they hiding?

Pain blossomed in his lower left calf now. Unable to stop himself, he toppled over, screaming in agony. Vision briefly faltering, he panted, looking around. The elves were holding their injured friend, looking terrified. A yell behind him made Alarion turn around just in time to be smashed with a shield. Nose probably broken, Alarion spat out blood, rising quickly. There were only a couple of them left! He could take them on!

But he immediately froze. The man he had injured earlier was standing at a safe distance with a knife to one of the elf’s throat. The lad was whimpering, looking terrified.

Alarion began to shake in fury as the man holding the elf captured snarled, “Drop your weapons or the boy dies. You’re fast, little rabbit, but not that fast.”

Weighing his options quickly, Alarion tried to think past the building rage in his body. “You’ll kill us anyway.” He spat, stalling so he could think up a plan. As they spoke, Alarion knew the remaining enemies were positioning themselves to have a better position to strike at him.

“What are you talking about? While I wouldn’t mind losing one or two, I want most of you Knife-Ears alive. You’ll all make very nice investments.”

“Slavers!” He actually spat this time, grip tightening on his bow, but otherwise didn’t move.

“ _L-lethallin_ …” The captured lad whimpered, pleading.

“I won’t tell you again. One dead elf is fine with me. How about yourself?” To show his point, he lifted the elf up further by his hair, blade drawing a little blood from his neck as he did.

“Wait!” Alarion cried. “Wait! You just want money, right?”

“Don’t even think about trying to pay us off. We’ll pick you clean anyway.”

“Not what I had in mind.” His voice was low, almost growling. “I am Alarion of the Lavellan Clan, The Herald of Andraste, Lord Inquisitor of Skyhold. The mark on my hand verifies as such.” He lifted the anchor to prove his point, and was pleased to see the look of shock on their faces. “Surely I would sell for a higher price than all of these elves combined; whether as ransom or as a slave. Agreed?”

The man seemed to shake away his surprise rather quickly. “Agreed.”

“Then take me instead.”

“ _Banal_ , _lethallin_!”

“Silence! Now, I will lower my weapons if you let the rest of these elves go and I’ll go with you peacefully if you let him go as well. I swear upon Andraste herself I will let you bind me, drug me, imprison me – the works. I swear to you that I will not fight, so long as you leave my clan in peace. But if you break our agreement, I will bring upon you the wrath of the Maker Himself. Do we have a deal?” It was annoying, having to sound like he believed in their blasted Maker and his bride, but it was the best choice of words to try at save those young elves.

The man hesitated, thinking it over. “Too good to be true.” He finally spat.

“For you, it may seem so. But my clan is more important to me than I am to me.” His hand gripped his bow so tightly it was starting to hurt. No other time in his life had he been this scared for his clan except when those letters and report were flying in on the war table. Every time he sent his advisors to take care of it, he would always have this sinking feeling that if he chose wrong, even once, his entire clan would be destroyed. No, he would not let anything like that threaten his clan again. Not while he was still breathing. “Let them go in peace, and I will not fight you.”

Nodding once, he turned to his men surrounding them and gave them a nod as well. “The elves are free to go.”

“B-but, _lethallin_!” one whimpered.

“ _Ghilas_. _Sahlin_.” Alarion barked.

They scampered off quickly, their fear overwriting their worry for him. Grateful, Alarion dropped his bow, unsheathed a second dagger, removed his quiver, and threw them onto the ground. “Now him.” When he saw the man hesitate, he growled, “Don’t break our bargain. I can still fight, you know. You won’t want to hurt your precious investment.”

With a single smirk, the man slowly removed his knife, and released the boy. The lad fell forward, looking paralyzed in fear. “ _Ghilas_!”

“B-But–”

“Enough, _da’len_! _Go_!”

Nodding, the lad ran off, slightly falling over himself. Alarion watched him go with a sad smile before he felt the hilt of a sword on the back of his head. Before the world spun with pain and darkness, he finally cried out in terror (now that they were safe, he’d let himself be selfishly scared), begging for help.

‘Dorian! _Ma’arla,_ _ma halani_! Dor–’

o.O.o

 

Before his mind could clear, Alarion cried out silently for Dorian’s comfort. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but everything hurt. He was scared.

Dorian would help. Dorian always helped. No matter how little or how big, Alarion knew his strong warm presence would be at his side in a moment’s time to help solve the problem. He would be witty and sarcastic, making him smile no matter how scared he had been before. _Ma’arla_ , _ma’arla_ , _ma’arla_ …

He reached out (though his arm remained motionless), searching for him. Surely the man lay next to him in the bed like usual? Despite such a strong initial objection, Dorian had moved past his discomfort to stay with him after their lovemaking. Eventually, it became an every night occurrence even without sex involved. The fact that Dorian had overcome his anxiety about scandal just for him, just for _him_ … Alarion didn’t have words for it.

When he couldn’t find his lover, his eyes opened in terror. Where was _ma’arla_? Where was Dorian?

Why was he on his back on the hard muddy floor? Why couldn’t he move? Was he bound? Why was he bounded? Where was he?

‘‘What happened’ is probably the better question, Alarion.’

Noting that his inner voice was starting to sound a bit like Dorian, Alarion wiggled so he could fall onto his side. Ignoring the brief pain it caused, he tried his best to look around. It was dark. From the smell and the sounds, he was still in the forest. Was he alone?

Not able to move much, Alarion closed his eyes and focused on his ears. There were faint sounds in the background, but they were dimmed. Were his ears covered? He was having a hard time sensing any real feeling. Despite that, the pain in his shoulder, calf, and overall soreness were ever so persistent. What luck.

‘You’re bound, Alarion, but not helpless. Start small. Wiggle a finger or a toe or two. Then, hopefully, the rest will come.’His mental pep talk done, he concentrated on his left hand. If he couldn’t wiggle a finger, at least he might be able to feel his mark tingling.

To his surprise, not only was he able to make a finger or two squirm, it did so with ease. If his movements weren’t being stopped by bounds, why did everything feel so slow and weird?

Wait, hadn’t he been able to flip himself over earlier? If he was having a hard time remembering only moments earlier, he had no hope of trying to figure out his situation.

“Ugh,” he moaned, wishing the hazy fog surrounding his brain would disperse. Was he hungover or did he get hit in the head? Either way, his head was _pounding_.

“Oi,” came a soft whisper somewhere above him. “It looks like–” suddenly the soft voice became overbearingly loud and terrible, “–the Crow Venom is wearing off. Give his Worship another dose, will you? We want him docile before he is sent to the Qunari.”

Qunari? Crow Venom?

“Right, right.”

Why were they so blightedly _loud_?

Mercifully, the elf slipped back into unconsciousness before anyone else could speak one more blighted word.


	2. Chapter 2

Sunshine flickering through the window. A cold breeze kissing his skin on a hot day. A full belly.

Concentrating as hard as he could on those three things, the elf gritted his teeth and did not move as the foot came from his left, striking him across the jawline. The blow knocked him off of his knees, falling onto the floor. He coughed, trying to move his jaw to allow more breathe to flow into his lungs. With a close to silent whimper, the elf rose back onto his aching knees.

“You understand why I have to do this to you, don’t you?”                                                

The elf’s voice was slow, measured, and with a hint of an accent. “Yes, Master.”

“Good.” Another kick came, once more landing on his left chin.

Unable to stop himself, the elf let out a wet gasp, crying out as he fell once more to the floor. Trying to ignore the blood filling his mouth, he rose again to his knees, gaze fixated on the floor.

“Why I am doing this?”

“Because I wonb’t wearn.” He lisped back, lip becoming swollen.

When the man looming over him said nothing, the elf flinched, worried he had said the wrong thing. Kicking wasn’t too bad. If the master decided he hadn’t had enough yet, though, he would flogged, beaten, burned, zapped, and more.

Before he could open his mouth to apologize, a stern voice above him grunted, “Up!”

Nodding, the elf rose to his feet but kept his gaze lowered to the floor. Sunshine. Wind. Full.

A hand grabbed the mess of brown hair on his head and pulled him down again. The elf gave out an initial cry, but then grew silent. His master hated making a scene, whether in public or alone as they were. His left side of his face smacked onto the floor, making the blood explode in his mouth. The metallic taste was overpowering. Though his body screamed for him to run, nerves flaring in every part of his brain, he tried to remember those three things. Sun. Wind. Full.

Wordlessly, the elf stood again, legs shaking.

“Look at me.”

And he did. Locking eyes with his master was always terrifying. Pale hazel eyes leered down at him, face full of disgust. His black hair was graying in spots, but that was only noticeable if you’ve been within inches of the man. From the elf’s current position, however, he couldn’t see the little stings of grey.

A deeply tanned hand rose and gently landed on his right cheek. Before the elf could advert his eyes, green flooded his whole sight. Soothing quick healing rippled through his face, mending the damage in his gums. He tried to stand still, but his master’s magic always felt like rushing water to him. It made him want to run.

Finally, it ceased. There was no longer any pain left in his mouth, though his jaw felt stiff. He had his eyes casted at the floor again, but his master titled his chin up to look at him more properly. “Do you understand your mistake, elf?”

“Yes, Master.” He said immediately.

“Will you spill water on the table again?”

“No, Master.”

“Good.” Master nodded, releasing his hold on the elf’s chin. Without hesitating, he turned to look at the floor again. “Good, now be on your way. I’m certain Anaka wanted to see you.”

The elf barely stopped himself from flinching. It was a very near thing. “Yes, Master.”

Strolling off, he walked quietly through the halls, keeping to the shadows and seen by none. Quietly, he ducked through the extravagant halls, knowing the winding labyrinth by heart. Wordlessly still, he knocked on the door he knew to be the right one and gave a shiver when the feminine voice on the other end rang out for him to enter. Taking a deep breathe, he opened the door and tried to remember those three things.

 

o.O.o

 

Standing in the showers, the elf let the lukewarm water run down his face, often catching on his ears and streaming off like two little waterfalls. Shivering despite the warmth, he curled on himself, hugging chest as tightly as he could. ‘Not mine,’ he told himself, fingers digging into his flesh. ‘Not mine.’

His skin was raw and pink where he had scrubbed them viciously, but he knew the smell lingered. The smell always lingered.

‘Not mine.’ He told himself looking down at his body. ‘Not mine.’

‘Well, what is mine?’

Scowling, the elf shut off the stream of water falling from the bucket above him by flipping the switch. All nine small holes were cut, leaving the rest of the water trapped in there.

After he dried off on a scratchy uncomfortable towel, he slipped on the silk pants waiting for him. There was no shirt available. ‘Not mine.’ He told himself, looking at the pants.

As quietly as he could, he walked through the dark halls, hand curled at his side. His bare feet squished the rug beneath him, the fabric tickling his toes. ‘Not mine.’

As he slipped into his master’s room and sat at the floor of the bed, he couldn’t stop shaking. His master would return soon from his dinner.

‘Not mine.’ He thought, looking down at his arms.

Soberly, he glanced over at his left hand. It was usually covered in the gloves his master made him wear. After a quick glance around to make sure he was alone, he reached forward with a tentative finger. Beneath his touch, his palm flashed green, illuminating his smiling face as the feeling sent not unpleasant tickling through both his left palm itself, and the finger stroking it.

‘Mine.’ He thought with a secret smile, tracing the strange green mark. ‘Mine.’

 

o.O.o

 

He was in the kitchens today. With both the master and his apprentice gone to the circle for the day, he was left cut off, wondering how to be of use. He had approached the Head Slave (an old elf nearly bald and a kind smile named Dal), and just stood there before the man had realized what he had wanted. Dragging him by the arm, Dal had brought him to the kitchens where the slaves there thrusted a peeler in his hands and pointed to the potatoes.

Ever since, he had been peeling the mountain of potatoes for what had to been hours.

He only looked up when he realized the rest of the staff was discussing him. He was unable to understand their words, but the pointing and angry gesturing made in his direction made it clear.

Now he listened closely, hoping to hear words he knew. After five minutes or so with nothing fruitful, he gave up and went back to the potatoes.

Minutes later, he was approached by a glaring slave girl. Looking up, the elf locked eyes with her striking brown orbs. “You goes to market and brings back packaged.” She snapped in halting Common. “You useless here.”

Nodding, the elf accepted the paper held out to him and headed out the door. Once free of the porte-cochère and far enough out of the sight of the house, the elf took a deep breath and allowed a smile to flutter across his face. Sunshine shone above him, flooding his body in warmth. A wonderful breeze licked at the back of his neck, feeling wonderful. His stomach wasn’t completely filled, but he wasn’t hungry.

“Good day.” He whispered to himself as he hurried off to the marketplace. “Good day.”

And the memory of this moment was his to keep forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: So I finally found it. http://princeofmorley.tumblr.com/post/132450706380/canon-clarification-on-tevene-vs-trade-tongue-in talks about how they don't actually speak Tevene in Tevinter. I discovered that after I had outlined most of this story and had written 6 chapters. So, consider this a cannon-divergent and I'm sorry.


	3. Chapter 3

After he had successfully found the store with the same logo that was on the paper, the elf felt fairly proud of himself as he clutched the packet close to his body. Without another word or a glance back, he tighten his grip on the box, keeping it safe in his gloved hands.

When he went on his way through the market back towards his master’s house, he found himself smiling at the stone work on the ground. Despite being dirty and worn down from all the walking, he still found himself liking the way it looked.

Around him, the market was alive and bursting. He heard very little Tevene he could understand, but did hear the occasional Common Tongue. People bartered about prices, some auguring. Others were chatting away about personal things occurring in their lives.

He kept his head bent low, careful not to run into someone, or accidently look anyone in the eye. Luckily, all ignored him, too busy and important to notice someone as lowly as himself.

“—Too expensive!”

“—And then she said–”

“—Thought about—”

As he turned a new corner, he heard someone shout a name. His carefully blank face fell into a frown. He hoped a child hadn’t run off or anything. In this crowd, it would be easy for a little one to be lost.

Shaking his head and reminding himself that it wasn’t in his master’s wishes to find the child, the elf continued on his way.

“Can you believe that?”

“—Look at—”

“Can we—”

His frown reappeared on his face as he heard the name be called out again. This time, it was closer and desperate. ‘Please don’t be a child missing…’ he thought, forcing himself not to turn and help. His master’s wishes were the only thing that mattered. He shouldn’t, _didn’t_ , care about some lost child.

“Alarion!”

The shout came directly behind him, causing a startle that made him jump. Before he could recover, a hand was on his shoulder and he found himself being spun around.

He was facing a man now. With a mustache neatly trimmed, hair attended to with acute detail, and skin brown and glistening. Though the elf knew he shouldn’t notice such things or even care, there was no denying that he was quite handsome. Why was such a man paying attention to a slave like himself?

“Alarion?” His whisper was shaking, as if he were close to crying. “ _Amatus_ , is it really you?”

The elf didn't answer; he wasn't sure he was allowed to. 

“Is it you?” The man pressed, more firmly, but still sounding close to breaking.

Well, the gentleman was asking a direct question. It would be rude not to answer, yes? But what was he asking? Still unsure, the elf opened his mouth and said, “I…” but close it, unsure how to finish his sentence without being punished.

“Alarion?” Then, his misery vanished to be replaced with a joyous grin. A howl escaped his lips as the man roughly pulled him into a hug. Immediately, the elf felt his stomach turn as he began to shake. Surely this was a punishment! And, if it wasn't, there was little doubt in his mind that he _would_ be punished for this. Not to mention the packet had fallen on the ground! He had to get it!

“ _Amatus_! You're alive!” The man sobbed into his ear.

The elf squirmed in discomfort but tried not to move too much. He had a feeling this man didn't want him going anywhere. Even if he wasn't his master, he was still way above him and the elf had no interest in displeasing anyone above him. He was in enough trouble already.

He was finally released, but the man’s hands stayed firmly gripping his shoulders. “Alarion…” He whispered. “If I wasn't so happy to see you alive, I'd kill you for making me suffer so.”

The elf didn't like the sound of that. After all, he had done nothing wrong. Why would this man want to kill him?

Suddenly, the man’s eyes went from round and sad to squinted and angry. “Why didn't you tell me you were alive?”

Though it was a direct question, the elf wasn’t sure how to respond in a way that wouldn’t lead to him being punished. He shifted his weight, looking down at his feet. What was going on? What was this man doing?

Suddenly, the man’s hands gripped tighter onto his flesh. The pain caused the elf to whimper, but the sound was lost as the man growled, “You stopped writing me! You stopped, and then Leli- _fucking-_ ana shows up herself to tell me you disappeared after a fight with some slavers! What else was I to assume other than you died, _amatus_?” He voice rose to a near shouting, “What? Why didn’t you tell me you were alive?”

What was he so angry about? The elf shivered under his scrutiny, avoiding his gaze. “Look at me!” The man demanded.

Whimpering, the elf turned his sight back to the man’s grey wet eyes. “Say something, _amatus_!” he hissed.

He had no idea what the man wanted to hear! During his hesitation, he could almost feel the man’s eyes as his gaze ran down his whole body without shame. After a long time, it became clear that the man wasn’t going to speak first. Finally, the elf whispered, “How may I serve you, Master Altus?”

The man stopped his examination to look him dead in the eye. “Master Altus?” He growled in a repeat.

Why was there such hurt in his gaze? Hoping he won’t offend, he whispered, “I don’t know what else to call you, Master Altus.”

For a moment, it had seemed that time had frozen. His striking face was unreadable, but the elf could see such a large extent of misery in his eyes.

In one swoop, the elf was free. Panic filled him! He turned to flee, to escape this madman and his fury, but only made it a few steps before realizing that he had taken ahold of his left wrist.

“Please,” the slave begged, a few tears running down his face. “Please, I don’t know what you want from me.” Instead of answering, the man slowly lifted the elf’s left hand. The elf’s heartbeat began to pound in his ears, his throat starting to tighten and hurt. “Please!” His pleas grew more desperate. “Please don’t! My master will be so angry with me!”

Ignoring his cries, the man used his free hand to gently remove the glove. Though the elf could not see, he knew what the man was staring at.

No! His master was going to be so angry! Fear pumped his blood, causing it to rush through his veins. The way his heart was racing, the Madman could probably feel his pulse throbbing. “Please!” He begged, tears streaming down his face as he tried in vain to tug free. “Please! I’ll be good! I’ll be good! Just please don’t tell my master!”

Instead of answer, the man looked at his face, studying every detail. His expression was surprisingly calm. Though not so surprising was his look of utter apathy towards the slave’s heartfelt pleas.

After one last attempt to wretch himself free of the man’s clutches, the Madman reached forward quickly and covered his mouth.

“Forgive me, _amatus_.” He whispered.

From the hand gripping his wrist came a stream of lightening. The sensation was best described as a painful popping flood. A scream fought its way through the elf, but was muffled by the hand. Consciousness fled as he fell forward into awaiting arms. He had fainted before he could hear the man’s crushing words as he caught him.

“Forgive me. Please forgive me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell who I should feel more sorry for, Dorian or Alarion. Poor both of them!
> 
> Also, I'll have you know that I squeal every time I see a new kudo. Thank you all for reading this! I hope you like it so far.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Dorian did when the lean elf fell forward was apologize fiercely as he hugged the man close to his chest. The second that was over, he quickly looked about to see if there were any onlookers.

Of course there were. He was embracing an unconscious elf that looked like a slave to them. More than that, there were tears running down his cheeks. At least five were staring openly at the scene he was causing while another ten or so were watching discreetly.

“ _Kaffas_!” Dorian swore a tad too loudly. Gathering the elf in his arms, he took off running through the crowd, not caring whom he ran over. He could hear shouts behind him, but there was a pounding in his head so loud that the words became solely noise. Fury was swelling in his chest, mixing terribly with the sorrow that already laid there.

Even with his eyes blurry with tears and the array of faces that bombarded his eyes (categorizing each face between threats, strangers, and allies), he could not stop seeing that look that appeared on Alarion’s face when he removed the glove. His wide green eyes, tears breaming the edges. The _vallaslin_ on his forehead crunched as his eyebrows pushed it up. Finally, his mouth was slightly ajar releasing shuddering breathes and sobs.

He was _scared_ of him! His _amatus_ was scared of him.

Tightening his grip, Dorian swore again, running faster still.

The buildings surrounding him began to blur, fading into a sea of white, gold, and butter yellow. Yet, it didn’t matter where his legs were taking him. All Dorian knew was he had to get away. Get as far away and safe as he could manage.

Turning sharply, he dived into an alleyway that ended in a dead-end. He ducked behind a large crate that lied there and waited. With the elf carefully lying behind him and his staff at the ready, Dorian never felt more prepared for a fight in his life. He would _incinerate_ any and all people that would try and tear him apart from his _amatus_ again.

As time ticked by slowly, Dorian counted to 120 before he began to relax. Keeping his staff within reaching distance and positioning himself so he couldn’t be seen from the mouth of the alley, Dorian finally allowed himself to hold the man in his arms again.

He held him so tightly that it would’ve likely hurt the man if he had been conscious. Blinking back tears, he ran a hand through his brown messy hair. “Alarion,” he whispered softly. “It’s you.” A sob threatened to shake him, but he bit his tongue and forced himself to instead properly inspect Alarion.

Gently, Dorian ghosted a finger across his _vallaslin_ , feeling his warm skin beneath his touch. His finger ran over a dark brown eyebrow, noting the small white scar that ran across the left one. Every small detail from the dots beneath his eyes to the three scars lying across his face were exactly the same as when he had last seen him seven months ago.

Silently cursing himself, Dorian realized he had been staring too long and made himself check the surroundings again. When nothing jumped out at them, quite literally, Dorian looked at the rest of the elf’s body.

He was wearing dark blue silk pants that had two baby blue strands going up from the pants line. The threads came up, crossing across his bare chest creating an X. They collected together at his neck, secured in place by a collar.

A growl leaving his lips, Dorian grabbed at the collar, blasting it with a rush of ice magic. Now brittle, it didn’t take a lot of effort to shatter it.

Collared. Some bastard collared Alarion!

With it gone, the two cloths slipped away revealing his olive chest. Immediately, Dorian could tell how much skinner he had become. Then, with another growl falling from his lips, he noticed faint bruising across his chest and arms. One particular group of bruises looked to be the shape of at least three fingers. Another across his ribs appeared to be the shape of something blunt, possibly a boot or something similar. Without hesitating, green light glowed around him. The fading purple now vanished completely, bathed in a green light. While he healed them, he also sent the magic through his whole body, checking for any injuries, serious or no. As he closed his eyes, he could see with his mind’s eye damage to the man’s gums, calf, and left shoulder. He gritted his teeth and stopped the magic. Will alone wouldn’t make his healing magic suddenly better. It was enough to know that the damage was minor and could likely be fixed by a spirit healer.

Finished, Dorian again looked for signs of trouble, but saw none. Though he was glad, a part of him still wished to be attacked, simply so he could set some vermin on fire. They deserved far worse for what they did to Alarion.

“But you’re alive.” Saying it out loud didn’t make it seem any more real. Though he didn’t really think he was in the Fade, he turned his gaze towards the sky. The lack of green, glowing, and a certain floating black castle was telling. “This is real.” He said firmly to the sky. Nodding once, he turned his gaze to check for danger before falling back on the elf lying unconscious in his arms. Dorian felt his breathe hitch more than he heard it as he whispered, “This is real. You’re alive.”

He wasn’t sure how this had happened. How Alarion got captured, got sent to Qarinus, and ended up in the market dressed as a slave. Why and how the events led up to this moment, Dorian hadn’t a clue. But, as he gazed down at his sleeping face, Dorian knew one thing with absolute certainty.

“I’m here. Don’t worry, _amatus_ ; I’m here this time. I will protect you. I swear I will protect you.”

 

o.O.o

 

As discreetly as he could muster with his heart pounding against his chest and his exhaustion clinging to his bones, Dorian causally glanced out the window. His face was a picture of nonchalance, borderline boredom. Far as he could tell, there was no one following them. Being the third inn he had come to today, it was far from surprising.

At first, he had gone to a high class inn. He flashed his birthright around while making quite a scene on how he had no idea it took so little to knock out a slave. The nobles laughed with him, exchanging a few stories about their disobedient slaves. After being escorted to his grand room, Dorian had locked the door and set up a glyph of paralysis just behind the door. Then, he had waited a good hour before he carefully leapt out of the window with Alarion safely tucked in his arms.

Then, he had gone to a middle class tavern with Alarion draped over his shoulders. “Too much to drink.” He had said, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “I bet you know exactly how it is, working here. Give a knife-ear a single drink and they’re passed out before you know it.” While the innkeeper chortled, Dorian had silently cringed and mentally sent further pleas of forgiveness to Alarion for the use of such a nasty slur.

After giving them a false name and a decent amount of money, Dorian had taken Alarion up to his room. He immediately set up another glyph, casted a barrier around both of them, and jumped out of the two story window the moment the coast was clear. They landed almost completely unhurt. The worst part of it all was that not long after they landed, Alarion began to show signs of stirring. Dorian physically flinched as he sent another stream of lightning into the man, affectively keeping him unconscious. Whispering apologizes to him did little to make Dorian feel better, but he couldn’t help muttering them nonetheless. After a moment, he tucked another strand behind an ear, murmuring, “My sleep spell only lasts 30 seconds at the most, _amatus_. I’m sorry.”

When he finally arrived at this tiny, shit-of-a-hotel, night had fallen. Though it had pained him to do so, he had found a garden just next to the place. There, he had found a spot encircled by bushes that would hide Alarion. He left after sending another burst of lightning for safe measure, surrounded him in hidden glyphs, and fiercely promised to return. He signed in alone, under a different false name than before. He spent a brief time in his room before his anxiety couldn’t take it anymore. Hopefully looking significantly less eager and stressed than he had felt, Dorian briskly strolled off towards the garden. There, he had found the sleeping man right where he left him with his glyphs undisturbed. After a sigh of relief, he had carefully brought him into his room when he was certain no one was looking.

Now, the two of them were in said room. There was a single door and a single window, both fortified with as many wards as his mana could allow. Besides those, there was a desk and a chair on one side, and a single person bed on the other. It was small, probably no more than eight feet in both directions. Still, it worked, and that was what was really important.

With a sigh, Dorian turned away from the window, careful not to accidently trudge upon one of his glyphs.

Should he switch again? He had wanted to change inns at least five times. But now…?

He was exhausted. His mana had reached its point where he either needed to take some lyrium, or rest. When he noticed his hands shaking, it occurred to him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before. In the pack he was carrying, all he had was just enough coin to pay for perhaps one more inn, but no food. Despite the fact he should have probably been carrying more gold, he did send a mental thanks towards the south for teaching him the importance of carrying actual money around and not just using his birthright to charge the Pavus Family.

Running a hand down his face, Dorian tried to think up options.

If he bought nothing else, he could stay at this inn for another three nights. Two, if he bought a few meals from here.

Should he return to Mae’s? No doubt she was worried sick that he hadn’t arrived back yet. After all, until today he had returned the second his required thirty minute walk was over. But it would probably be very dangerous. She was a capable mage and a friend, but Dorian loathed the idea of putting her in any type of danger, especially after the way she had been taking care of him the last three months. He would send her a note, to stop her search parties, but refused to risk putting her in danger.

On the thought of notes, he knew that some people at Skyhold and beyond deserved to know that their dear friend was alive. His clan should be told too.

Frowning, Dorian began to pace again, even if he was only able to move in a four foot area.

But when should they be told? Whoever had abducted Alarion would likely notice his absence soon, if they hadn’t already. If they were searching for him, the first place they’d look would be Wycome or Skyhold. Sending even the smallest note could end terribly. All those people that cared for Alarion and Alarion cared for in return would be put in danger.

Opening his eyes and stopping his movement, Dorian turned slowly towards the bed. With a sudden urge, he had no hopes of fighting, he all but jumped onto the bed next to Alarion’s unmoving figure. Gathering him up gently, he pressed his ear to his chest. His heartbeat was still drumming. His stomach was still rising and falling. He was alive.

“I never dared hope.” He admitted, voice just above a whisper. Lowering him down softly onto the bed, Dorian kept a hand on his cheek. “Never once in these last three months did I dare to hope. I should have known better.” He grinned down at him, holding back tears that were pushing against his eyes. “With your knack of survival, I truly should have known better. But why…?”

His throat caught, making it hard to breathe. So many questions were pounding against his chest. Why didn’t Alarion tell him he was alive? Why didn’t he tell anyone? Or had Alarion told people his plans and they had been lying to Dorian this whole time?

Shaking his head, Dorian tucked a strand of hair behind one large ear. Alarion would have never done that to him, or his clan, or any of his companions.

Try as he might, the image of that moment when utter helplessness and terror were edged in his face directed at Dorian came to the front of his mind. Tears had run down his face as he begged for mercy. He had been so afraid of Dorian. Why? Why would he be?

_“How may I serve you, Master Altus?”_

_“Master Altus?”_

_“I don’t know what else to call you, Master Altus.”_

He hadn’t recognized him. Why would Alarion, _his_ Alarion, not recognize his own home?

“It was just a mistake, right?” Dorian whispered. Feeling a little trapped, he began to pace once more. His heart raced against his chest, though he was unable to name what emotion made it do so. “You know who I am. I’m your _ma'arla_. You’d never forget me.”

Unable to handle the silent answer from the sleeping elf, Dorian moved to the desk and removed four scraps of the five paper he had available. Thanking his foresight for having that and a quill sent up before he had retrieved Alarion, Dorian began to write.

First, he wrote a letter to Maevaris. Though his hand shook, he hoped Mae would still recognize his handwriting.

 

_Dearest Mae,_

_I know it’s sudden, my dear, but I’m afraid I won’t be returning any time soon. Please do not fret, I am still nearby. I know most of my possessions are still at your house, and I would never leave such clutter for you to clean up, so I will return within a week to clear it out._

_To say this sudden disappearance was a need to be alone would be a lie. I will tell you the full story when I return to you soon._

_With love,_

_Dorian Pavus_

_P.S., do not be surprised if you receive a letter from a dear relative soon._

 

He held it out for the ink to dry as he pulled out the other three papers. Quill just resting at the top, he took a deep breath and began to write.

 

_Dear Varric,_

_It has been some time since I last wrote to you despite all the letters you have sent me. I apologize. I know you may find this surprising but I hadn’t been in a cheerful enough mood to respond properly. Funny enough, I am now. Quite suddenly. So suddenly, in fact, it was the very last thing I had been expecting. And, on the subject of such unexpected abruptness, I urge you to come and meet me here in Qarinus where I’m staying. Not only would Mae be delighted to see her favorite relative, but I find myself missing your company as well. I’d be overjoyed to have you join me here. Please consider it. Actually, scratch that. Instead of considering, hop on the next ship! I know how dearly you hold Kirkwall in your heart, but I’m certain you’ll find yourself caring for here as well. Besides, it’ll only be a few days before Qarinus is in the palm of our left hand._

_I hope to see you as soon as possible._

_Dorian Pavus_

_P.S., I do apologize for the multiple letters you may receive on this matter. I have heard of a few birds not making it across the sea due to storms and decided to send three ravens just in case._

Hoping it wasn’t too obvious with the way he put extra pressure on writing ‘left hand’, Dorian left it to dry while he copied the exact letter onto the other two papers.

Finally, on the last letter, he wrote only four words:

 

_L,_

_It’s him._

_D_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent my entire lunch break trying to upload this chapter off of my phone. It kept coming up in a single block of text with no tabs or spaces in between paragraphs. I finally gave up and waited until I was off work to upload it. So here it is. Further in my defense, it is 23:55 my time so it's still Friday and I didn't miss my deadline. Ha!
> 
> Serious thanks and shout out to FenarielTheDalishMage for being my beta reader!
> 
> Thank you all for reading this, leaving kudos, and the comments! You are all awesome.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry it's so late you guys. It's a huge long story involving car mechanics that ripped me off for almost 2,000 USD and a lawsuit that will likely happen as a result while simultaneously trying to move to Washington state this Saturday. Trust me when I say that I'd rather be writing this than dealing with my life. I will try to update it this next Friday. No promises, though.

The climb to consciousness was a slow one. It started in the forehead. There was a slight pain, but it was so fuzzy that it really didn’t matter. Then, he noticed his toes were flying. But, that was okay. They could do that. He’d let them.

It was only when he could hear a scratching noise waking him did he realize he was asleep. Slowly, with a frown on his face, he listened to the sound as he feigned sleep. It was familiar. He knew that din. What was it?

The moment he realized what it was, he physically flinched but kept his eyes shut. That was the sound someone made when they were writing on paper!

Once, he had accidentally fallen asleep behind the desk where he had been hiding (earlier, he had overheard Anaka mentioning her ‘favorite slave’ and decided to hide before she could spot him and spout orders). He had woken later to the sound of someone entering the room. Immediately, he recognized the boots and the bottom of the staff of his master. As Master sat down at the desk, the elf had been torn on what to do next. He wasn’t allowed to lie, so when he would be forced to explain why he had been hiding, Master would been so very angry with him. So, he remained hidden, shaking and petrified that he would be discovered. Each stroke of that blighted quill stayed etched in his mind. It seemed to move slower and slower as the elf’s heart raced faster and faster. Soon, the elf started having trouble breathing, begging silently for the noise of the quill to stop. Once it did, he could sneak away. When the noise did finally cease, the elf managed to slip out without being seen, though just barely. Ever since, he hadn’t been stupid enough to try and hide again.

Or had he? What other explanation was there? He would have never been allowed to be asleep while his master was in the room. He was back in that study. There was no other explanation. He was behind that desk, awaiting the moment when he would be dragged out by his hair and have fire and lightning shot at him from every direction.

Without making a single sound, the elf curled into a fetal position. Oh please, please, _please_ don’t let Master find him.

How long he stayed like that was an immeasurable amount of time. He must really be back in that moment because the strokes of the quill slowed to the beat of his pounding heart.

A gasp sounded, shattering the barrage of chatter surrounding the elf. He flinched the moment the gasp came out. Oh, he had been spotted.

 _Oh no_. Please no.

Please, please, please, _please no_!

“Alarion!” A voice cried.

The sure surprise in the unfamiliar voice startled him enough to look up from where his arms were covering his head protectively. The sight that greeted him wasn’t what he had been expecting. Instead of pale hazel eyes narrowed in fury, he was faced with a pair of gray eyes, wide with… some emotion. From the eyes, the elf moved his gaze down the rest of his face. Before his mind could catch up in his panicked state, his body was already propelling himself away from the out stretched hand coming from this man. Who _was_ he? The moment the question crossed his mind, he knew the answer.

“I–” The madman jumped, eyes widening further still. Whatever else he had to say was instantly drowned out.

“Oh no! Please, no!” Unable to stop it from escaping, the slave let out a whimper. His back hit the wall behind him, putting about a foot between him and the Madman. “Please. Please!”

“Alarion?” The madman whispered.

“Please, Master Altus! Please!”

The madman opened his arms, making the rest of his body more visible. “Maker! It’s me, Alarion! It’s me! It’s Do–”

But the elf clapped his hands over his sensitive ears. He flinched from the pain, shutting his eyes. As he begged again, tears began to flow freely down his face. “Oh, please! Please let me go! Don’t hurt me! _Please_!”

He felt a hand grip his right wrist. Immediately, the elf began to sob, expecting the pain to follow. All that happened was the hand forced that ear open. “I’m not going to hurt you, _amatus_! Maker’s mercy… _look at me_!”

Still sobbing, the elf followed the order. The man’s face was twisted like he was being force-fed something terrible. “I’m not going to hurt you! Just talk to me! Tell me who you are.”

“J-just a slave.” He wept. “I’m just a slave.”

“No, you’re not!” The man snapped, fury seeping into his brow. “Who am I? You know who I am!”

‘A madman that has adducted me’ didn’t seem like a good answer. Instead, the elf shook his head, tears still falling freely.

Worried he was offended and angered by the answer, the elf shut his eyes and waited for the strike that was sure to follow.

Instead, he was suddenly aware of the scent of vanilla. Seconds later, thought drifted away and he felt himself fall forward into the man’s awaiting arms. The last thing he remembered was the madman’s arms tightening around him. He recalled being very warm.

 

o.O.o

 

His mind swirled for hours on end. Scenario after scenario on how this happened; what had happened; when it happened; and, what felt the most important in his swirling grief and anger, _who_ did it. It bounced around in his head for what seemed to be a true eternity. What finally stopped the noise was unclear. For the next thing Dorian was aware of, was a short rapping at the door waking him up.

Head aching as he lifted it off the wooden desk in front of him, Dorian felt like shit. His eyes felt raw and his face felt bloated. Signs of an overwhelming abundance of crying. His neck felt stiff and unforgiving from sleeping in such a strange angle on such a hard surface.

But when the rapping continued, Dorian ignored all of the pain as he leapt in front of the door, blocking the bed from view. Staff at the ready, he approached cautiously; careful not to disturb the lasting glyph.

“Identify yourself.” He snarled in quick Tevene.

The person on the other end seemed to hesitate before speaking in Common. “Hear me child. I bring the Maker’s love.”

She certainly had that dramatic flair in her voice the sisters tended to have. “I have no need to hear the Chant today.” Dorian responded, switching languages with ease.

“Please, child.” The voice on the other side continued. “There is much turmoil here. If you simply looked to the Maker, you’d see just how easily he loves you just as he loves her Holiness the Divide.”

‘Her’ Holiness? Dorian felt a small flicker of hope amidst his suspicion. Casting a quick barrier around himself and his _amatus_ , he unlocked the door and swung it open slowly.

A single woman stood on the other side. Her robes red and her hat large and curvy. She seemed frightened at the sight of Dorian, but attempted to school her pale face into a peaceful expression. “Peace, child. The Maker loves you.”

“Do you need something?” He asked quietly, still not lowering his weapon.

“Nothing you need. For you already have the Maker’s love.” She responded. Despite her words, she gave a quick glance around before slyly handing him a note. “I will be on the other side of this door, my child. I’ll be ready to speak with you about the Chant.”

Nodding, Dorian closed the door and immediately turned his attention to the envelope. He ripped at it so hard that it nearly tore the letter inside. In precise handwriting read:

 

_Dorian,_

_I need you to listen carefully. Though I want to, I can’t come in person. Divine Victoria wouldn’t be able to vanish without someone noticing. I would draw too much attention, even if I was disguised._

_Contacting Varric was smart and he’s already on his way over. I’ll have a messenger and a carriage waiting for him and he’ll be debriefed. He should be there in 13 days._

_You are safe where you are. Do not move. This sister has a large amount of gold for you to use as well as a few books. I thought you’d appreciate the distraction. If you require anything else, tell her now and she’ll retrieve it for you, no questions asked. She’ll be back in five days to check on you again. Meanwhile, I have agents keeping the entire inn under close watch. If anyone is coming after you, we’ll know. So stay where you are._

_What I’ve managed to uncover on this is confusing. I’ll keep looking into it. Rest assured, I have not breathed a word to anyone. Still, when she returns in five days, please have a detailed report on everything you know ready for her to send me._

_We’ll find the ones that did this to our dear friend. I promise you, Dorian._

_Leliana_

 

With trembling hands, Dorian read the letter again before pocketing it slowly. Without a word, he approached the desk and quickly wrote a list of ingredients he needed. When he opened the door again, the woman waiting on the other side beamed at him, perhaps overjoyed to see he was no longer pointing a staff in her direction.

“Blessed are they who–”

“I need these.” Dorian grumbled, pushing the list in her hands.

“Of course, my child.” She nodded, pocketing the list at the same time as fishing out a pouch. “And here is your offering. I shall return with haste.” She gave a small bow before rushing away.

As he watched her leave, Dorian let out a sigh of relief. He glanced over his shoulder at the unmoving small figure on the bed. Despite being leagues away, knowing Leliana was watching out for them made him feel more at ease beyond words. He was no longer alone.

 

o.O.o

 

Dorian sat in a chair nearby, pretending to read. He honestly couldn’t remember if he had brought the book out with the intention to read, or if it was an excuse for him to sit in the room. Either way, he hadn’t turned a page in over ten minutes. In fact, he had rarely glanced at it since flipping it open to a page at random. For all he knew, he could have had the book upside-down.

But, the position he had settled into left him with a perfect view of the elf’s rising and sinking chest from just above the tip of the book. Though the elf hadn’t awaken since that one… episode, the sight did help cement the knowledge that he was alive.

Alive! His _amatus_ was alive!

Still with his eyes plastered on Alarion’s chest, Dorian sat there for an uncountable amount of time. When a knock came at the door, he jumped, feeling his heart slam against his chest. His staff was ready in his hands in an instant as he positioned himself so he was blocking the elf on the bed from view. Then, he waited in silence.

“Sparkler?”

Giving a sigh, Dorian called out, “A moment, Varric.”

Waving his hand, he removed the glyph. The moment it faded, he unlocked the door and cracked it open.

Varric stood on the other side, face grim and Bianca at the ready. He took one look at Dorian before shuffling quickly into the room. “Where is…” but he stopped short as his eyes fell upon the sleeping figure on the bed. Quietly, he placed Bianca on his back before approaching the bed. He stopped just short of him, within arm’s length.

“Let me guess: ‘well shit’?”

“No.” Varric gave a chuckle before sinking himself into the chair Dorian was in earlier. Running a hand through his hair, he said, “This is more like, ‘thank the fucking Maker he’s alive’ or, ‘how the fuck is he alive’?”

Shaking his head, Dorian moved to sit on the bed. After a moment of hesitation, he placed his hand over Alarion’s. “I still can’t believe it at times. It seems far too good to be true.”

“How are _you_ doing, Sparkler? You look like shit.”

He gave a small snort. “Not quite as eloquent as you put it I’m sure. I…” He had to gulp and turn away. Finally, Dorian’s eyes landed on the dots beneath his amatus’s eyes. “He... He hadn’t recognized me. He was scared of me.”

“Oh, shit, Sparkler.”

“Yes, thank you, Varric.” He snapped, ripping his gaze away to glare at the dwarf.

He held up his hands in a defensive matter. “Easy mage. I’m here to help.”

“Pray tell!” He barked. “What exactly do you have planned?”

“I talked to Nightingale. We’re heading somewhere nicer. Preferably, with a bath.”

 

o.O.o

 

Voices were speaking. Faint little things just beyond the edge of his hearing so it wasn’t possible to make out any words. Every once and a while, he could make out a single word, but it all faded together into a single stream of sound.

He was hungry. That was the only thing he knew for certain.

When he started to hear crying, he felt the urge to help long before he realized he was the one crying. Was he injured? Was that why he was weeping? If he could remember correctly, despite the fuzz ringing in his head, he had passed out during his punishments before.

And there were hands shaking him…

Fear gripped him harder than those hands holding his arms did. Who was touching him now? Why, why, _why_ couldn’t they leave him alone? Without a single rational thought, the elf began to violently thrash against the hands binding him, arching his back as he tried to be freed.

“Please! Please!”

It took some time before he even realized that he wasn’t the one begging. He tried to open his eyes to see the person behind the voice, but found that he couldn’t.

“Come on, elf!”

‘Stop touching me! Please make the pain stop!’

“Come on, Glowy, please! Come back to us. Open your eyes!”

An order! He was being ordered. If he didn’t follow the command, he would be severely punished. With every ounce of will, he opened his eyes barely, but quickly closed them from the pain of light. Too much. It was all too much! He’d take a shot of lightning right now. The bolt would likely knock him out.

He struggled against the hands touching him until exhaustion caused him to fall back first onto the soft surface he was lying on. His breathing was heavy with each sob still shaking him.

One of the hands gripping him (during his struggle he realized there were several) suddenly released his shoulder without warning. It instead began to tuck strands of sweat soaked hair out of his face, tucking them behind his ears. And the elf waited. He waited for the strike he knew would follow. Or, more likely, for the hand to trail down as it had so many times before.

When nothing came, the elf began to stop struggling. Though he couldn’t make himself stop crying, he made the sound silent. His master hated making a scene. He needed to be quiet.

“Keep doing that! He seems to finally be calming down.”

The hand kept moving hair out of his face until it was all clear. Instead of yanking or something similar, the hand moved through his hair gently, running small lines across his scalp. Soothing, gentle… Was another slave showing him mercy? Occasionally, another slave would show him kindness. More often than not, however, they despised him for being the favorite. They had no clue how much the elf wished he could be just one of them instead.

Shivering, the elf stopped struggling completely, curling into a ball instead, grateful the remaining hands let him. He was still too scared to open his eyes.

“ _Amatus_?” The whisper came gently, so unsure.

Tevene? His master knew he couldn’t speak it. Why would he…?

“Glowy, we’re here to help.”

He whimpered and kept his eyes closed. For now, they were just voices. Putting faces to voices never ended well.

“Look, Glowy, um, if you don’t want to come out, that’s fine. We brought you some food, though.”

Food. How long since he had eaten? His stomach felt like it was crawling!

“How about we just leave it here next to the bed? Would that make you feel better?”

He wasn’t sure who the person talking was, but he did have a kind and soothing voice.

“Right. Sparkler, leave the food there on the floor.”

The hand stopped its movement through his hair, but remained just for a moment before it pulled away slowly.

The elf waited for something to happen. He waited there unmoving long after he heard the door close. Waiting. Just waiting…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to FenarielTheDalishMage for being my beta!


	6. Chapter 6

You know, in the whole time he knew the guy, Varric had never seen the mage so shaken. The man could outwit all his opponents before they even realized they were playing. When facing Blood Mages, Red Templars, giant laughing Pride Demons, lava-spitting Wrath Demons, and certain death, the man would give a smug smile as he twirled great power at his fingertips.

“Sparkler.” He prodded gently. Since closing the door behind him, Dorian hadn’t moved a single muscle. He just stared at the ground, eyes wide and unseeing.

What seemed like an eternity ago, Varric remembered the way the mage had looked when the human stumbled past him on the way to his place in the library. The usual obsessively tidy hair was slightly tussled and one of his belts was dangling loose. Had he not had the tact that only Varric Tethras could have, the dwarf may have teased or asked exactly what had happened during that two-person mission him and the Inquisitor went on at Redcliffe. Since he was who he was, Varric watched the man walk towards his area without a comment, but didn’t forget the rare sight of seeing Dorian look haunted.

When Alarion fell in battle against a horde of Shades, Varric remembered watching the man’s face darken, but otherwise Dorian’s mask didn’t move an inch. When the battle calmed down after the second wave, Dorian had rushed to his side, but did nothing but scold Alarion with a slight smile on his face. _“Better be careful, or Varric will tell everyone how_ you _sleep on the job while_ I _do all the work.”_

“Sit down, Sparkler.” Dorian didn’t respond.

The closest he had ever seen to a raw Dorian was at Adamant. When he, Dorian, and Cole stumbled out of the rift and onto solid _real_ ground, Dorian had tumbled, falling completely with Varric close behind. Cole was at their sides in seconds, helping both of them to their feet before scampering off so swiftly, Varric hadn’t been able to see where. That quickly left his mind as he turned sharply around, scanning the area. When he had been unable to spot Hawke, he felt his stomach drop right to his feet. He remembered the demon’s words to him, sneering at him. Every wrong thing that had happened to Hawke since she arrived in Kirkwall had been his fault. And now, she was stuck in the Fade because Varric asked her to come.

Varric could remember thinking how Hawke needed make it out. He’d never forgive her or himself if she didn’t.

A single glance at the human at his side spoke volumes. Dorian had stood there, ridged and tense as a board, eyes unwavering from their stare at the pulsing Rift. Though it was for someone else, he was just worried. As if sensing Varric’s gaze, Dorian looked down at him. Their shared a nod, and both turned back towards the Rift.

Dorian and Varric had waited in silence, their hearts pounding in their ears. Varric could vividly recall the horror he felt at the idea that, for once, Hawke wasn’t coming back. His heart pump into his chest, but Dorian was right there with him, staring unblinking at the pulsing green.

Though they hadn’t had to wait long before a familiar figure tumbled through, landing gracefully on her feet with another familiar thin figure coming close behind. Varric had let out the breath he was holding, adopting a grin to replace his worried frown from before. He had turned to Dorian to make a joke, only to have the noise die in his throat. Dorian’s face was twisted in fear, eyes wide. With a choking breath, he fell forward onto his knees. Throughout the entirety of his quiet display, the human never once stopped staring at Alarion.

And now Dorian was even further gone that back then.

“Sparkler? Dorian?”

The human shook his head, finally moving away from the door. “Apologies Varric… I was simply lost in thought.”

“Are you alright?”

Shaking his head again, Dorian raised a hand to his forehead. “I am feeling a mite dizzy. Perhaps I should sit.” Quickly, Varric side stepped so Dorian could approach the kitchen table in front of them. As he relaxed into one of the four wooden chairs, Dorian sighed. “Don’t mind me, Varric. I always have had a dramatic flair.” Dorian gave a bleak chuckle, as if he hoped to lighten the mood. “I’m fine.”

Instead, Varric’s frown deepened. “No need to lie to me. You’re not fine; and that’s okay.”

“Ah, but I need to be fine.” The man shook his head before a weak smile fluttered across his lips. “How else are we to find the bastard that did this? How else are we to find that _fucking bastard_ who did this?”

The fact that the mage wasn’t shouting but growling the words out seemed so much worse somehow. “Nightingale is working on that. Right now, we should be focusing on trying to help Glowy.”

“How Varric?” Dorian nearly sighed the words out. “The man can’t stand the sight of me. Quite literally, in fact.”

“He might just be confused and scared.”

Snorting, Dorian crossed his arms. “Well that’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one. For fuck’s sake, Varric; the man won’t even look at me this time! He just kept whimpering and crying. Clearly, I’m making the situation worse.”

“Look, it was just that one time–”

But the words died in his mouth the moment Dorian’s face dipped into a glare. “ _Twice_ , Varric! _Twice_ he’s looked me and told me that he doesn’t know who I am. When I asked him who he was, he told me ‘ _I’m just a slave_ ’! Alarion would have _never_ served anyone! You know it as well as I do. ‘We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit’. Alarion hated slavery and I…” He stopped, looking suddenly pale.

For a moment, Varric wondered if the man would be sick. Instead, he simply gulped and said, “We don’t know what’s going on. But ignoring the obvious fact that Alarion doesn’t recognize me won’t make this situation better.”

Varric paused for Dorian’s sake, to give him a moment to gather himself. “Alright, let’s assume the elf has lost his memories. He doesn’t know you, me, or himself. If that’s the case, the poor guy is understandably terrified and confused. As far as he can tell, we’re kidnappers with unknown motives. Why don’t you go and talk to him? Try and calm him down maybe?” When Dorian only glared, Varric shrugged. “Whenever that guy was worked up, you were always the only one that could talk him down.”

“He’s terrified of me. I’d only make it worse.”

“You never know until you try, Sparkler. I’ll be right outside the door if you need me. You’ll be fine! And, on the off chance you fail miserably, I’ll be here to smooth the feathers.”

 

o.O.o

 

After the people left the room, the elf had been left alone. Not that he didn’t prefer being alone as opposed to being with them, but it left him to sit there mulling his fate. They were going to kill him. He just knew it.

Even if that human hadn’t abducted him, the elf remembered what that madman had said, “ _…I’d kill you for making me suffer so._ ”

So what did they have in store for him? Torture? Punishments?

“No, a blood ritual.” The elf mumbled, eyes widening in terror. After all, the madman was a mage.

He tried to wipe his sweaty palms on the bed sheet he was sitting on, squirming. Oh they were going to sacrifice him. He was going to have the blood stripped from his body and pulled away from him. They were going to slowly drain him until there was nothing left inside.

Was it going to hurt a lot? More than his usual punishments? Surely it would. It had to!

“Please no.” He whispered to himself. Breathing heavily, he looked around for an escape. There was only a single window, but it was too small to slip through. There was a desk on his left side. He leapt to it, hoping to find some form of weapon he could use. There was nothing inside the one drawer except a quill that looked too old to be properly used.

There was a single door across the room, but he knew that’s where the madman and whoever was helping him were.

Whimpering, he closed the desk drawer and retreated to the bed again.

Once more, he took up the same position where he could stare at the door.

No escape. No rescue coming for him.

It would be slow, agonizing and unpreventable.

He was going to die. Nothing. There was nothing he could do.

Sniffling, he started to bawl, tears falling from his eyes very quickly. ‘Master! Master, please! Help me!’

It was useless! He knew this. But that didn’t stop him from begging silently. ‘Please! Please, I’ll do anything. Just save me from this monster.’

Even if his master knew where he was and what was happening, the elf doubted he would have tried to save his slave. Why would he? He was barely more than nothing. There was no need for him to actually care enough to try and save him.

Finally, after a long time of pleading and blubbering, the elf slowed his breathing down to simple hiccups.

Shaking violently, he pressed his hands over his ears. It hurt, given their sensitivity, but the elf barely noticed at all. ‘Anything, Master! I’ll do anything. I know you’ll punish me for this, but please come for me.’

Any punishment, no matter how severe, would be worth getting his routine back. The elf was willing to accept any amount of pain if it meant he knew what was expected of him. As a slave, all he ever cared about was day-to-day. Each moment his only concern had to do with his master, and nothing else. Now, he found himself wondering what the future held. It was petrifying! He missed the steady feeling of a routine.

Every day he needed to see to the master and his apprentice’s every wish. Every moment was spent making himself useful or face the consequences. Watch, listen, disappear.

There he knew what to expect and what was expected of him.

Here, he was doomed. He didn’t know what to anticipate, therefore couldn’t react. If he couldn’t find a way to make himself useful, they’d kill him for sure; if that wasn’t their original plan to begin with.

Shaking his head, the elf pressed his back against the headboard, wishing the wood could swallow him.

Instead, a knock sounded softly from the wooden door. The elf froze with his tears even stopping in place. Gently, a voice called out from the other side. “Alarion? Can I come in to talk?”

In his head, the elf screamed ‘no’, but knew he could never say the word out loud. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut, and waited for the inevitable.

It took quite a few minutes, but the door did eventually open slowly. There stood the owner to the voice, the madman himself. His black hair was tussled, as though he hadn’t combed in many days. His clothes were the same as they were the day he stole him from the market. Lastly, his face was puffy, as though he had been crying, or sick.

“Alarion?”

The elf jumped at the noise, realizing he was looking a superior in the face. Quickly, he looked down to the man’s chest. Even though he wanted nothing more than to bolt out the now opened door, the mage’s gaze on his face made him freeze onto the bed, hands balling the sheets in fear.

“Please don’t be afraid!” The man implored, holding his two hands up defensively. “I’ll keep my distance! I promise.”

‘Distance doesn’t matter with a mage.’ The elf thought, feeling worse with every passing moment. He wondered if begging would be helpful at this point. If the man had ignored all his other pleas, likely he’d ignore him if he did so again. Best if he kept silent then, unless directly asked a question.

When several moments passed, the man finally sighed and lowered his hands. “Can you at least look at me?” Immediately, he raised his eyes to face him. The man appeared in pain. In a close to panic, he stammered, “I-I didn’t mean to make that sound like an order. You’re not a slave, Alarion, especially not mine.”

He almost opened his mouth to correct him, but remembered himself. Instead, the elf shifted his weight, wishing he would be allowed to look away again.

The madman teeth gritted together, his expression becoming increasingly painful. “You are far more than a slave, Alarion.”

But he wasn’t! He was an elven slave, nothing more. Realizing he was disagreeing, even if it was silently, the elf flinched and looked down. Then, he realized he had disobeyed an order. Dropping his head, the elf waited to feel the man’s slap across his face for punishment. Or, perhaps, a spell?

… It didn’t come. True to his word, the mage was keeping a careful distance.

“Please, look at me _amatus_.”

Hearing the man’s voice break in its pleading made him look up in surprise, not obedience. The mage looked positively _miserable_.

“I understand you don’t remember.” His voice began to become a desperate whisper. “I realize that you don’t remember who I am. And-and I know your first impression of me wasn’t exactly ideal. So, can we please start over? We were really close, once.”

What… what was he talking about? Sure, there was a great deal he couldn’t remember, but his master had assured him that he had spent his entire time at his side. If so, then when did this mage have time to get to know him? And, for that matter, why would’ve he wanted to get acquainted with a lowly little elven slave?

As he pondered these thoughts, attempting to draw a connection, he realized that several minutes of silence had pasted again. Face reddening at the thought; he remembered that the man had asked him a question. Bobbing his head in agreement, he whispered, “As you wish, Master.”

His face flashed horror. “No! No, Alarion! Please! Please, don’t ever call me ‘master’.”

“Yes m–ser.”

“ _Vishante kaffas_!” the man swore, placing a hand over his features. “This is going terribly. Dorian… I’m – just call me ‘Dorian’.”

“Yes, Dorian.”

“And, do you know your name?”

He said this question carefully. Likely, he knew the answer, but the elf responded anyway. “No, Dorian.”

“It’s Alarion.” He said without hesitation. “You’re name is Alarion.”

Alarion? Well, that came as no surprise that the mage – ‘ _Dorian_ ,’ he corrected – thought that was what he was called. After all, the man had been referring to him with that name since the first time he had laid eyes on him.

“You’re name is ‘Alarion’.” Dorian repeated, voice gaining confidence. “You come from Clan Lavellan, located in the Northern part of the Free Marches, currently staying at Wycome. You were sent to the conclave by your keeper, Keeper Istimaethoriel, to spy on the peace negations. There, you encountered Corypheus. Due to a series of events, you ended up as the sole survivor of the conclave. The anchor on your hand,” he pointed towards the green glowing scar, “made you able to close rifts (portal-like green Fade openings that let demons slip through into reality). You, and only you, were able to close them. After great heroics on your behalf, you were named the Inquisitor of the Inquisition. You led people over impossible odds and saved all of Thedas.

“And I… I was…” He hesitated, gulping. Finally he murmured, “I helped in that endeavor.”

Now, silence fell upon them again. The elf squirmed in his seat, wishing that he would simply leave, or give him orders. Why was he spinning such a tale? Heroic deeds? Led people? Saved the day? He was a simple slave! He wasn’t anything like the man Dorian had just described. Besides, most of what he said didn’t make sense to him. What was a conclave? What was a Corypheus?

Minutes ticked up slowly, both men just staring so intently on the floor. It was Dorian who finally couldn’t stand the stillness anymore. “Does any of that sound familiar? Do…?” He chocked, but managed to say, “Do I seem familiar?”

The elf writhed under the attention, not wanting to displease, but knowing he could not lie. “No, Dorian.”

“None of it? Not even me?” His eyes were wide, and, though the elf wasn’t certain, he also seemed to be teary-eyed.

Though he had yet to hit, the elf shook his head and prepared to feel the man’s disappointment.

“How?” Dorian whispered, looking shocked. “How did you forget?”

Not knowing the answer himself, the elf said nothing.

“Just say something! Please!”

Nodding somberly, the elf said, “What would you like to hear, ma–Dorian?”

“Maker’s breath!” Dorian ran a hand down his face again. “How about you tell me one request you have? That’s what I want to hear.”

Without thinking it all the way through, the elf whispered, “I request to be alone.”

They both held their breath for a second. Finally, the mage gave a small bow. “Of course. I won’t bother you further.”

And, though the elf was certain he was just mistaken, he could almost swear the man was crying as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to FenarielTheDalishMage for being my beta and thank you guys for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to the my stories "Dismissal" and "Just Not Yet". You don't have to read them to understand this, but it goes into more depth.

Varric jumped to his feet from the stool he was sitting in the moment Dorian closed the door behind him. “How’d it go, Sparkler?”

His throat tightened, and a crushing pain caved onto his chest, making so very difficult to breathe. He nearly gasped from the sheer agony that racked his soul. Unable to say anything, Dorian turned away before his eyes could water again. No matter his pain he would not humiliate himself in front of Varric like that.

“Shit, that bad?”

“You have no idea.” The words came with much more meaning that Dorian realized. No, there was no way Varric could even had the slightest inkling of how bad it was. Suddenly, the world started to tilt on its side. “I’ve lost him twice now.”

“He’s not dead, Sparkler.”

“No?” He turned towards the dwarf now, a faint laugh escaping his lips. As he spoke, his voice was surprisingly even despite the turmoil raging through him, “If he’s not dead, than it’s a fate worse than death. Far, far worse,” he shook his head folding his arms across himself. “I bet his followers will be overjoyed to see him breathing again. They’ll call it a ‘Maker Miracle’; to the void with the fact that Alarion has never believed in the Maker. Meanwhile, only his friends will grieve because only we know how the man we truly appreciated and adored is actually gone. Gone forever. And that petrified man in there stole his body.” Unable to keep still, Dorian started to pace, violently gesturing towards the floor with every word. “The man I loved. The elf we all adored, gone forever. And, even worse than actually being killed, we’re left with a shell of a person; someone else parading around in his skin!”

At first, Varric did nothing. How long that lasted was unknown before the dwarf stood and walked over to his side. “That’s still Glowy in there.”

“No it’s not!” Dorian was wound up like a wire. His tension and grief had him so riled he felt like a single shove and he would make him snap. His hands curled at his side, making sparking noises as he held back barely contained lightning. “He said so himself! He has no memories, Varric!”

“But he’s still our friend.”

“What was something you once said while we were in the Fade? Ah yes, ‘ _memories are what makes us who we are_ ’. Then take away the memories of someone, and they’re no longer them! That’s not Alarion anymore.”

The dwarf frowned at him for a while before speaking. “Yes, and I meant that. That elf may not be same man we remember, but he’s still Glowy. Do you think I’m the same man you said goodbye to, what, nine months ago? People change. They’re always changing.”

“Don’t you _dare_ try and compare…!”

Folding his arms, Varric said, “If you don’t keep your voice down, Glowy will hear you.”

Without another glance, Dorian stormed past the dwarf and past the table in front of him. The wooden house led to a small hallway, which he gave barely a glance as he push opened the door and stepped outside into the musty humidity. Dorian allowed himself to take in a deep breathe, grateful for the large group of trees clustered enough to cast him in shade.

“Look, Sparkler–”

“Not a word, Varric. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll be quiet… for now.”

Shutting his eyes, Dorian felt his body start to sag. Instead of falling undignified to the ground, Dorian dragged himself to the wall of the house and slide down it, back pressed up against it.

For the three months Dorian thought his _amatus_ was dead, Dorian had forced himself to lock all their happy memoires they shared together in his heart. Only when he was so drunk and sobbing alone did he even let the memories surface at all. Now, though, he found he couldn’t stop them.

_Alarion comes tumbling drunken into my room, switching randomly from rambling to singing. He says many things that night as I drag him back to his room so the gossiping pigeons can’t feast on the idea that he spent the night in the Evil Magister’s room. At one point, he even mumbles out, “I’m all yours forever now. Well, I guess as long as you’ll have me.”_

_“Or until you get sick of me.”_

_“Not possible. I can’t get enough of you.”_

At the time, Dorian had forced himself to brush it aside, convinced it had just been the alcohol talking. Looking back on it, months later, he was forced to accept that there was a possibility of the words being true. It didn’t help that the elf, who couldn’t remember the episode, repeated the words to him dead in the night four months later.

_I had been expecting a laugh. For Alarion to brush it aside like he did most things he didn’t deem important. But the man only gives the smallest smirk with a raised eyebrow. “That’s not the worse assumption they could have, is it?”_

_Only a few heartbeats later, I’m kissing him. The feeling is so infinitely better than I could ever have imagined. Maker, how did I manage to wait so long? And, for that matter, why did I wait?_

Dorian suddenly felt like crying, thinking back on their first kiss.

_Alarion had been pacing and standing just outside my door for at least twenty minutes. When finally confronted, he slowly admits to his fear of me rejecting him. With his head buried into my chest, Alarion says the words, “…_ _the one I love the most.”_

_Instead of taking the words back, he only apologizes for breaking his promise._

Tears began to fall freely from his eyes as he thought back on the first time Alarion said those three words.

_We had been lying on each other reading books before Alarion had sat up. Turning to me, he says the words I will never forget. “Dorian, there’s something I want to tell you. I’m worried it will scare you, so let me promise you something: I promise I’ll only say it when we’re here in this room unless you want me to do otherwise.” I try to steer the conversation a different direction out of fear, but Alarion isn’t having any of it. “Dorian Pavus, I love you. I love you so much! I love you more than life itself. You make me so unbelievably happy! I just hope that I make you just as happy as you make me, because I love you. I love you. Creators, I love you so much!”_

Fully sobbing now, he finally opened his eyes to see the sun had set. Varric stood above him to his left, leaning against the wall. The dwarf said nothing as Dorian cupped a hand over his mouth, trying to stiffen the wails wanting to escape his lips.

In all their time together, Dorian had never said ‘I love you’ back. And, despite Alarion’s constant reassurance that it was fine, he had always felt terrible about it. But he hadn’t known at the time! Maker, what a fool he was. It took Alarion dying for Dorian to finally understand how deeply he felt for the elf. And, Dorian never told him. He never had a chance to. It had been too late.

He kept thinking about the man in that room now. Too scared to even look at him directly. Constantly flinching as though he expected Dorian to slap him every other moment.

And his eyes… Dorian could remember the exact way Alarion’s stunning eyes looked. The brightest green he had ever seen with irises so light they were almost white. The way they always held such warmth to everyone he looked at. Each eye had a laugh in them, ready to spill across his lips at any moment. And when it was just the two of them, his eyes would fill with tears; secret and frequent and always hidden. Maker, novels could have been written about such twinkling and kind eyes.

Now, they were wide and fearful. Flickering constantly from Dorian to the door, always watchful. Cold… suspicious of him… Terrified tears open for all to see.

“Maker, it’s not him anymore.” He hiccupped, trying to stop his voice from wavering. “The man I love is dead.”

For a long time, Varric didn’t reply. When he did, his voice was so low and growly; it was lucky the earth didn’t shake at their feet.

“You’re giving up?”

“What else could I possibly do, Varric?” His voice stayed steady, despite the continuous tears that were falling. “He asked me to stay away, so I will. Instead, I’m going to find the ones that did this to him, and I’m going to _kill_ them.”

“Then you’re giving up on him. You’re giving up when he needs you the most?” Dorian looked up slowly to see Varric’s face twisted into a glare so powerful, it was as sharp as any of his bolts. “Fine, Sparkler, give up! Walk away and go on a hunt for the bad guys. But ask yourself one stupid question that you should have already asked yourself: would Alarion have given up on you if your situations were reverse?”

“Alarion? Never.” Dorian answered without any hesitation. “He would have never given up, despite what anyone would have said. He would have pushed mountains and shook entire continents.” Albeit, likely sobbing the entire time…

“And that’s something he would have done for any of his friends.” Varric replied, voice surprisingly soft. “Just imagine what he would have done for you?”

At once guilt coursed through him. Hastily Dorian wiped away tears, feeling even more shame rising in himself by the second. Unable to handle it properly, he snorted and attempted to deflect the conversation. “Ha! He always was a better person than me.”

“He still is better than all of us. I flat out refuse to believe my good friend is gone. He’s somewhere in there. You’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you FenarielTheDalishMage for betaing and thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

The elf wondered how long it had been since the madman – _Dorian_ – visited him. It was difficult for him to gage time, even with the small window with fading sunlight in it. Eventually the elf didn’t even try to. After Dorian had left, the elf cried a little more before falling asleep. He awoke and ate the rest of the food left for him. Now, he sat curled with his knees to his chin on the bed staring at the door.

And waited.

Then, wondered if they had decided to starve him out instead of sacrificing him for his blood.

And waited.

His legs felt cramped, being curled up on the bed all day, but he couldn’t muster the energy to walk. Even if he could, what then? Pace around the room until it felt so small that it would implode on him? Best not to think about that. It’d make him panic again.

Should he think back on his three favorite things instead? It might ease him, if only a little.

Shaking his head, the elf quickly decided against that. Currently, he wasn’t being hurt, punished, tortured, or killed. He was actually calm in a way that only came from letting loose and crying. This composure was unlikely to last, but he hoped anyway.

Tapping his finger against his knee, he stared at the bed he was sitting on now. Ogling endlessly as his thoughts blurred into nothing. Nothing but that pale blue fading pattern of a bedsheet. Nothing else existed.

A loud rap at the door jarred him so violently out of the stupor that he leapt back and hit his head on the bedpost. Whispering a quiet curse, he rubbed his head as he looked towards the door. ‘Please don’t be him! Please don’t hurt me!’

The door swung open quickly. Immediately, the elf felt both relief and fear over the sight of someone new. He was a small human carrying a tray almost as large as his torso. No, that wasn’t right. This was a dwarf. He knew what a dwarf was, but this was the first time he had ever seen one.

But weren’t dwarfs supposed to have beards?

The dwarf took a step forward into the room. With immediate reaction, the elf pushed his back against the headboard, trying to distance himself as much as possible.

“Easy, easy.” The dwarf said gently, a smile on his face. “That look of horror at my appearance should only be reserved for ex-girlfriends and old rivals.”

Something about the man’s voice was so soothing and kind that it made him feel relaxed and safe.  So, despite everything, the elf felt a tiny smile flicker across his face. It fell as quickly as it came, worrying that he’d be punished.

“Mind if I come closer?” He held up the tray in his hands. “I have food.”

The elf frowned at the tray. It was very rude of the Kind-Voiced Dwarf to bring in food to eat while he was so hungry. Even so, he gave a small shake of the head. He didn’t mind.

With a smile growing ever so slightly, he approached the bed. Once he arrived, he held out the tray. Without hesitation, the elf took it out of his hands. Then he watched as the Kind-Voiced Dwarf retrieved the chair from the desk and pulled it near the bed. After carefully looking him up and down, he asked, “Is this distance okay?”

The elf slowly nodded, unsure why he cared, but was grateful anyway. He turned back to the tray, his heart leaping at the sight of all the cheeses, bread, and fruit laid out on it.

“You can eat it, if you’d like.”

Eyes widening with the smallest gap opening between his lips, the elf looked back up at him and waited for confirmation.

“Really, I did make it for you. But you’re welcome to stare at it instead.”

The elf smiled through his shock before turning to the food. Without hesitation, he jammed most of the cheeses into his mouth.

To his side, the dwarf laughed. “Easy kid. You’ll make yourself sick eating that quickly.”

The elf nodded, and immediately slowed, eating the remaining cheese and fruit at a normal pace. The bread, however, he tucked under his pillow when the dwarf wasn’t looking. He never knew if they’d decide to stop feeding him.

Once finished, the dwarf reached forward and grabbed the tray off the bed and onto the floor. While he stood, he gave a small practiced bow. “I’m Varric Tethras. Pleased to meet you.” Then he returned to his seat.

For a moment, the elf wondered if he wanted an introduction back. But he had no name. Instead he bowed his head and said, “At your service, Master Tethras.”

The dwarf laughed at that, his shoulders shaking. “You call me that and I’m going to feel old. How about you call me Varric with no title?”

“Yes, Varric.”

“What about yourself? Have a name or something you liked to be called?”

Casting his eyes down, he said, “I have only been referred to as ‘slave’ or ‘elf’.”

“Well, I already have an ‘Elf’. How about ‘Alarion’? Would you mind if I called you that?”

“You are welcome to call me whatever you prefer.”

“Kid, I asked you if _you_ would mind.”

“I...” He paused. “Isn’t that the name Master Dorian gave me?” Oh no... He asked a question! He already flinched, shutting his eyes and gritting his teeth to prepare for the strike.

“The very same. Well, would you mind?”

Opening his eyes slowly, he glanced at him, smiling so sweetly. Was this a trap? He couldn’t see how.

And the name. The elf had never had a name before. Even the other slaves had names. He had just never had someone around to name him.

‘Names, names, names.’ He frowned at his own repetitive thoughts.

“‘Alarion’ is fine.”

“Then Alarion it is!”

Unable to help it, the elf smiled tentatively back.

“So, did you know I’m a storyteller?”

“No, Varric.”

“I am, Alarion.” He winked at him, a smile still on his lips. “A professional one at that. Would you like to hear a story?”

He perked up, surprised at the man’s kindness. “I would.”

Varric grinned at him as if sensing his eagerness. “No shit there I was standing in the middle of an empty square! It was dark and quiet that night in Kirkwall. Too quiet. I could feel the night getting antsy just before it happened. Bandits swooped down, their laughter bouncing off the walls around me. They were expecting easy prey, but got Varric Tethras instead. Instantly, I leapt backwards, releasing a barrage of bolts upon them, killing three archers at once as a shower of bolts rained down. A guy with a sword thought he could get the drop on me. With a cry, he came from my left, but swiped too high. My bolt shot his neck and flew right through and into another’s forehead. Just as I thought I had the upper hand, more came jumping off the roofs and onto the scene. I thought I was done for!” He paused there, grinning at his captivated audience. “But then, my good friend came barreling down the steps into the square. Hawke took one look around before her knife flew from her hand and into the neck of one of the assailants.”

“Hawke?” The elf asked, momentarily forgetting to watch himself. “The Hawke?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of her?”

“O-only a little. Please don’t hurt me!”

“Won’t dream of it.” He gave a soft smile. “I was only surprised. I didn’t think tales of her made it this far north.”

“I-I’ve heard very little. But the tales of her say she is very fearsome in battle. Rival to very few.” It wasn’t the complete truth, but neither was it a lie. He had overheard the Master talking to some southern foreigner about how much she had been interfering with their plans and how they needed to find a way to take her out. _“But,” the foreigner had said. “Who would dare challenge_ the _Hawke? The woman practically has no rivals that compare to her strength.”_

Though this dwarf seemed genuinely kind, the elf was not about to betray his master.

Varric looked at him as if he knew Alarion was holding back more information. But then he smiled. “Hawke’s reputation proceeds her. I’ll take credit for that. I am the one that told her story after all.”

His eyes widened and he could feel his ears twitch. “You told her story? Wow,”

“I did indeed.” Varric titled his head slowly. “Would you rather hear that one? It’s longer, but I’ve had some practice telling it. And you’re a much better audience than some I’ve had in the past.”

For a moment, the elf froze from sure indecisiveness. But the man wanted to tell it, didn’t he? Then it would be alright, wouldn’t it? Only one way to find out. “I would. Please.”

“Alright, Alarion.” He grinned even wider as he leaned back in his chair. “I’d get comfortable. It’s a long story and not one you’ll hear all today. I’ll break it up into four parts for you.”

 

o.O.o

 

“That year, many major events happened in Kirkwall. But none so important as the event that shook history. That was the year Hawke met me.”

The elf felt himself get excited, even though he tried desperately to squash it. “A dragon?” He felt himself whispering. “A dragon?”

“A dragon and a witch rolled into one. Not a bad beginning, wouldn’t you say?”

The elf nodded in response, eyes still wide. “What happened next?”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, but the story really works best if broken up into four parts. I’ll save the rest for later.”

“Alright.” The elf relaxed into the bed, the excitement over hearing the rest still very much rushing through him.

“What about you, Alarion?” Varric raised a single brow. “Have any good stories?”

“No, I...” ‘can’t remember any’ got caught on his lips.

“Really? None?”

Looking up sheepishly, the elf found himself relaxing even further under the gaze of the earnestly curious kind dwarf. “... I suppose I do have one. Probably the only story I know worth telling.”

“ _Now_ you got me all curious!”

He blinked a few times at him. If this was a trap, he had yet to figure out how. “One sunny day some time ago, I woke up and immediately had a mouthful of seawater. Before I could realize what was happening, I was dragged underwater by a current! It tossed me around until I managed to surface. While gagging, I managed to scream out for help. Almost instantly after, I felt a hand grab me by my shirt and pull me upwards. The same hand couldn’t get me on a boat, but they managed to keep ahold of me as they rowed to shore. Before I knew it, I was puking on the sand of a beach.”

He shuddered at the memory, almost tasting the gritty sand and the acidic burn of vile.

“When I finally managed to stop, I was brought to the only person around who spoke Common: my master. At first, he was very angry with me for looking him in the eye and asking questions. But, it soon became apparent to everyone around that I had no memories of who he was.”

“Really? You don’t have memories?” Varric sounded both intrigued and confused.

“Yes. I think being roughed around in the sea did something. That’s the first thing I can remember.”

“That’s something. What happened next?”

“I returned to Master. He explained to me how I have been at his side since I was a child.”

At once, he felt a suffocating depression flood over him. Tears sprinkled at his eyes, but they didn’t fall.

“That was a really great story, Alarion.” Varric said quickly. “It has all the good points a story should have! Mysteries, twists, reunions, tragic ending...” He titled his head, looking curious again. “You know, details make or break a story. Do you know the name of the beach you woke up on?”

The elf nodded slowly before murmuring, “Yes. They told me it was Seheron.”

“Thanks for the story, Glowy.” Varric smiled so earnestly fondly at him, the elf found he wasn’t sure how to react. He rose slowly from his seat. “I’m pretty tired. I’ll be back in the morning with breakfast, alright?”

The elf nodded, not sure how else to respond. He watched silently as Varric closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to FenarielTheDalishMage for beta reading and thank you guys for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

In the name of Andraste, how did Varric find himself here? Tevinter of all places, feeding a man that was once the most powerful man in all of Thedas, while simultaneously babysitting a drunkard of a pampered noble in line to take a seat on the Magisterium. It felt like a long build up for a joke that never had a punchline.

Three times a day, he went and brought Glowy food. Every time he did so, he made sure to subtly call him ‘Alarion’, hoping to get the elf used to having a name again. They would talk, a little. Well, Varric mostly talked while he sat there absorbing everything like an excited puppy. It had been a while since Varric had had such a captivated audience. Felt good to have someone new to tell stories too. Every once and a while, though, Varric caught himself telling him a story he knew Alarion had already been told. It was a strange feeling whenever this happened. A part of him waited for Glowy to have recognition flash across his expression. A laughing, ‘you’ve already told me this one’, or something! Instead, the elf sat happily waiting to hear what happened next. It was far more disconcerting than Varric allowed to be shown externally (to Sparkler or his forgetful lover).

Even the first time Varric had gone to see him, the poor guy had seemed terrified. He had relaxed after he had been fed, but had still seemed warry. It had taken a lot of discreet coaxing to get him to open even a little. A hundred small smiles, a gentle nod at his few words, a ready word of encouragement at any given time, and so much more: all things he doubted Alarion had even noticed, but Varric hoped it had helped. Maker, he was starting to sound like the Kid.

Shaking his head at his own thoughts, Varric closed the door behind him. The instant it shut, Dorian pounced on him.

“Well?”

“‘Well’ what, Sparkler?”

“You know damn well _what_. How is he?”

“Still terrified, still memoryless, and still not wanting to come out. Just like the last hundred times you’ve asked me.”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t comment. Varric knew he should have a little more patience (had that been Bianca in there instead…), but Dorian’s dramatic ‘woe is me’ was starting to wear him thin. “What did you talk about this time?”

“A little more about some of my Hawke stories, and the weather.”

“The weather.”

“Yeah. We talked about weather, and I asked him about clouds.” Varric folded his arms. “Did you know the elf can’t remember rain, but he knows what it is? He seemed really excited when I told him that the weather was worsening and he had a chance to see some soon.”

For a moment, the mage had been struck speechless. “You legitimately talked about the fucking weather?”

“I found it rather informative actually.” He maintained, attempting to keep the irritation out of his voice. Shaking his head, Varric turned and started towards his room so they’d no longer have to whisper. “If Alarion knows something that he has no memory of, there is a chance he even knows some people we know. Imagine for a moment how much simpler it will be convince him that we’re on his side if we have someone he remembers here to talk to him.”

“But _weather_?”

“Meaningless talk is important in calming people down.” Varric snapped, feeling more exasperated by the second. Without looking at the man, Varric pulled out the chair to the desk, but continued to talk. “Think it will help to try and calm the elf down by flooding him with the knowledge we are old friends? It’s best if we just start over for now.”

He frowned as he heard Dorian storm off, but didn’t comment or look over his shoulder. Instead, he pulled out a scrap of paper. At the top was his previous writing, and he quickly jotted down a little more at the bottom before he scanned the notes.

_Conversation 1: Shit! Qunari? Couldn’t have been a simple single bastard that I could’ve shot. No! It had to be an entire fucking race. Sparkler looked ready to storm the entire island when I told him. Already wrote to Nightingale. At this point, the question is this: how the hell did happen? Slavers (that we found slaughtered) to Qunari, Qunari to Tevinter Magister in a way that involved the sea? And, somehow along the way, serious memory loss? Shit, this doesn’t make any sense to me._

_Breakfast Conversation 2: Glowy looked so surprised to see me again. This time around, I barely got him to say anything. I mostly talked to him about Hawke’s first three years in Kirkwall. I haven’t gone into this much detail since the Seeker asked so nicely._

_Conversation 3: Brought him lunch, we shared. We pretty much ate in silence. He seems to be relaxing more around me._

_Conversation 4: I almost got him to talk to me about his pervious day-to-day, but he clamped up tighter than Seeker’s smile. Good thing I had asked so tactfully, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to play it off like I was asking something different. Probably best if I just lay off asking him anything anymore. From now on, stories are all that will flow out of my mouth._

_Breakfast Conversation 5: Just stories. Didn’t ask him anything. Sparkler didn’t appreciate that one bit. 5 silvers says he’ll be drunk by lunch._

_Conversation 6: I asked Glowy if he knew how to read since “he liked stories so much”. He told me that slaves aren’t permitted to read. Word-for-word what Broody once told me. I offered to teach him since I know how much Glowy loved to read. He seemed both thrilled and terrified by my offer, and didn’t give me an answer. That’s fine with me. I’ll be patient. Maker knows Alarion deserves a little patience for what he did for Thedas. (Also, I’d be 5 silvers up if there was anyone around besides me to pay up)_

_Conversation 7: Fuck! Why do I always befriend tragic heroes? If Hawke doesn’t kill me, Alarion will. This time, the elf asked me if I was going to murder him. I’m not sure if he believed me or not._

_Breakfast Conversation 8: As I told him more stories, the elf seemed to relax even more today. Maybe he did believe me when I promised to never hurt him. Shit, I hope so._

_Conversation 9: We actually had a conversation! Not just him listening and answering the occasional question. We discussed food. The man still likes fruit. I promised to bring him a little extra fruit next time. That seemed to perk him up. I wonder what it must be like, never having your preferences be noted before? Well, that he can remember anyway._

_Conversation 10: Haven’t been able to get him to tell me the name of that bastard that convinced him he was a slave. I haven’t asked outright, though. I’m no fool. Learned nothing of importance. I mostly did the talking this time. The few things he mentioned was the occasional things he likes. Shit we already knew about him. Dorian seemed relieved that the elf still enjoyed the outdoors and walking barefoot in the grass._

_Breakfast Conversation 11: Today while talking about his favorite weather, he told he that he wanted to see rain for the first time. I asked him who told him about it, and he told me no one did. He just knew what it was. When I probed, he told me that he didn’t know how he knew, he just did. Some of it’s still in there, I guess. This might be the most important information I’ve gotten since Sehron, even if Dorian’s being a piss about it. I’ll make sure to write the letters about it._

Sighing, Varric set the paper down only to pull up two blank ones. Once he finished his letters, he stood, and went to the kitchen. When he arrived, Dorian seemed to already be halfway through a bottle of some Tevinter alcohol. Frowning, but saying nothing, Varric began to prepare a couple sandwiches. He left one on the table, and set the other two on a tray. Without a word, he sat down at the table, lost in thought.

“Is it really so simple to just befriend him again?”

Varric looked up, surprised that Dorian was talking, but less surprised by the almost accusing tone. Was that what he had been obsessing over? “Of course it isn’t. You remember how easy it was to befriend him the first time in Haven. The elf was hands down the friendliest person I have ever met. He was your friend after only five minutes of talking to him. This time around, it’s an actual effort. But, that doesn’t mean I’m willing to walk away from him.”

“How can you just accept this so easily?”

“Simple: I can’t. But Glowy needs me right now, and I’m willing to be there for him. Therefore, what he’s feeling is more important than what I’m feeling.”

The human looked like he’d respond, but instead he just bowed his head, leaving Varric alone to his own thoughts again.

_“And I am not good at dealing with shit like this.”_

_“No one is, Varric.” His green eyes were so wide with concern. Blasted elf had more compassion in his expression than most people felt in their entire lives._

_He was just too good! He couldn’t possibly understand.  “That’s just it. I don’t deal with things. If Cassandra hadn’t dragged me here, I’d be in Kirkwall right now, pretending none of this was happening.”_

_“You know that’s not true.” Alarion replied immediately. “You’ve worked as hard as any of us to stop Corypheus.”_

_“Is that true? I don’t even know anymore.” It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate his words… Shit, he was sounding like an ungrateful whinny teenager. “Thank you. For your help back there.”_

_As if sensing his thoughts, Alarion frowned at him. “Stop that. Stop doing that whole I’m-a-terrible-person attitude when I know for a_ fact _you’re not.”_

_“Sure you think–”_

_“No! Listen for a second.” He folded his arms, looking far too serious for someone usually so cheerful. “The first time we met, my hand was coming crazy. Did you know the words of comfort Cassandra told me? ‘It’s killing you.’” He gave a soft chuckle before continuing. “Remember what you said? ‘Shit, are you alright?’ Didn’t even know anything about me, yet you cared enough to ask. So while Solas was berating me for being born Dalish and Cassandra wasn’t giving two shits if I lived or died… there you were caring._

_“Later at Haven, you were the first and only person to ask me how I well I was holding up._

_“And,” his eyes danced, twinkling in the candlelight. “You were the first person to ever ask me for my name who wasn’t Dalish. Literally, you were the first person to ask in my entire life.”_

_Varric opened his mouth to respond, though he had no idea how to for once. He just sort of hoped it’d come to him, but Alarion glared him down into silence. “Ask me to come on a secret mission with only you and your girlfriend that you admitted might betray us? No hesitation. Want me to keep the leak a secret from my advisors? Without question I will. And, want me to let Bianca go after she_ does _betray us? For you, of course._

 _“But I’ll be damned if you want me to stand here and say nothing in your defense! You want me to believe you’re only here because you were dragged to, and only guilt is making you help the Inquisition? Bullshit, Varric! Want to know why_ I _think you’re here helping? Because you’re a good person who cares about people!_

_“You’re my friend and a damn good one at that. There’s a lot I’m willing do to for a good friend, but I won’t stand around and let anyone badmouth them, even themselves.”_

_Sighing, he unfolded his arms. “Sorry, that may have been a bit much, but you had it coming.” He titled his head, eyes wide with concern once more. “After all this, do you think you’ll see Bianca again?”_

_Varric gave a soft smile. “I always do.”_

Perhaps Glowy had been right all long. After all, here he was. Dealing with shit that made no sense to him… again! And this time, it had only taken a letter to get him across Thedas again, no kidnapping required.

Sighing, Varric gathered the tray and got ready to beam and pretend nothing was wrong.

His friend was in there somewhere. He just knew it. And if worthless chatter and a million smiles would bring him back, he was willing to do it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also known as the chapter where Alarion says what was on my mind during the epilogue of that quest. If Hawke had been there, she would have said it herself. Albeit, in her purple-Hawke way.
> 
> Why is Varric’s flashback in third person while Dorian’s was in first you may ask? I do have a reason! Varric was reflecting on a past interaction while Dorian was truly re-experiencing them. It felt heavy handed to write Dorian’s flashbacks in third when the character was clearly more than just remembering happier times.
> 
> So it isn’t some horrible inconsistence. I had a reason! I doubt many of you even noticed, but I would have so… here’s my defense. Feel free to judge me anyway :)
> 
> As always, shout out to FenarielTheDalishMage for being my awesome beta and thank you guys for reading, kudo-ing, and commenting. You guys are the best!


	10. Chapter 10

The instant he heard the door open, Dorian was on his feet. He rushed at Varric with nothing more than a brow raised. The dwarf ignored him, heading towards his room so he could write down whatever it was that he wrote after talking with Alarion.

“What did you discuss this time?”

“How we met, actually.” Varric shook his head before sitting down in his chair. “Even when I repeat stories I know I’ve told him before, he never seems to notice; but I still hoped he’d recognize his own stories. I wondered if I just didn’t mention it was how I met _him_ , maybe he’d make the connection and remember me at least a little. But, no.” He sighed, pulling out the parchment. “I can’t seem to get him to remember anything of the past, whether his or history in general. Far as I can tell, his memory only started about a month ago.”

“Have you tried _asking_ him anything of importance?”

“Yes, great plan! Scare the elf so badly that he clamps up and doesn’t talk to me anymore. Why haven’t I thought of that?” He let out a sigh before continuing. “Look, Sparkler, this isn’t easy for me either, but I shouldn’t snap at you. But if you’re so damn set on what we should discuss, maybe _you_ should go and talk to your elf. After all, I’m still waiting on word back from _my_ elf.”

That clearly signified the end of the conversation, even without having him turn his attention to his papers. Without a glance back, Dorian went out of Varric’s room and into his own. He took little notice of the cheap barely comfortable bed and instead went straight to the small wooden desk next to it. He hastily opened the drawer, only to find it empty. Slamming it shut, he opened the drawer below it, only to find it empty as well. Avoiding screaming his frustration, he stormed off to the kitchen and tried there as well.

After searching for a bit, he only found a single note written in precise handwriting.

_I took the last two bottles. You’ve had more than had your share and I deserve to get shitfaced too._

Cursing the dwarf and everything about him, Dorian crumbled up the note.

With little else to do, Dorian turned his attention to the small wooden table lying in the middle of the pitifully minuscule kitchen. On the corner of the table laid the book Dorian had been reading earlier that morning as he waited for Varric to finish talking with Alarion.

For the first conversation or two, Dorian laid pressed against the wooden door, the thinness allowing just the barely thread of their voices to sink through. Soon after, though, he made himself stop. He wondered, not for the first time, when he had become so pathetic that just the slightest hint of the elf’s voice made being such a blubbering mess worth it. The moment he realized he was thinking like that, however, he made himself stop.

Because what a mess he was. Sighing louder than he had to, Dorian dropped himself unceremoniously into the chair and attempted to start reading where he had left off. The last few weeks, he had not been acting like himself, but he wasn’t sure how to exactly snap out of it. Every moment that pasted, Dorian knew he was on the verge of crying. He had hoped, rather selfishly, that once backup would come and he would no longer have to concoct those dreadful knockout bombs, that somehow he would be happier. A ‘misery loves company’ of sorts.

But having Varric around was only making things harder for him. Now he had little excuses that would convince himself as to why he was being such a big emotional wreck when there was an audience around.

Maker’s breath, he still couldn’t believe he allowed himself to weep in front of Varric. If the dwarf never let him live that down, it’d be too soon.

A memory of a sheepish looking (and crying) Alarion pushed to the front of his mind. Willing it away, Dorian forced himself to ignore it by turning his attention to the book in his hands.

_Although lyrium will allow a mage to send his conscious mind into the Fade…_

_“It bothers you, doesn’t it? That I cry so often?”_

‘No!’ He mentally snapped at himself. ‘This is an important book. Read it, you pathetic excuse of an _altus_.’

_…into the Fade, blood would allow him to find the sleeping minds of others…_

_“Of course not,_ amatus _. Does it bother you I cry so little?”_

_…sleeping minds of others, view their dreams, and even influence or dominate their thoughts._

“Never, _ma’arla_.” He whispered quietly to himself.

Dorian’s grip tightened on the book’s binding. Fingers trembling against his grasp, he lifted it to throw it across the room, but thought better of it.

“Maker’s breath.” Glad to be alone in the room, Dorian instead dropped the book and raised his hands to cover his eyes.

Why? Why was this harder to deal with than when he was mourning?

But Dorian knew the answer to that.

He had been so miserable at first, locked away in a room at Maevaris’s home with only brandy for company. Dorian spent more time wasted than sober, making it difficult to gage exactly how long he stayed like that. Nothing but countless times crying to the sky, begging the Maker to give him back his _amatus_ for any price, mixed with memories of drunken sobbing. The only thing that interrupted the endless cycle of alcohol and numbing depression was when Maevaris would barge through the door to take care of him.

It didn’t take long before that moved onto anger. He had demanded through uncountable letters to so many people for names; Dorian would get his vengeance even if it killed him in the process. But when Leliana had been unable to find out anything more than the bandits that got him were all slaughtered (supposedly with Alarion with them), Dorian had realized that there was little else for him to do. If Divine Nightingale couldn’t find out more, there was no chance of Dorian uncovering anything further.

Still, he had clung to the anger. It was easier to deal with more than that numbing endless misery.

He had been livid with the Maker, for taking away the one light left in the world.

He had been furious with the elves Alarion had saved, for being the liabilities in the first place.

He had been angry at Alarion for sacrificing himself, though only at times…

But above all else, Dorian knew he would never have forgiven himself for not being there for the elf when Alarion needed him most.

And that anger that bore unbelievable loathing towards himself, and most of Thedas itself, was so undeniable easy to feel. It was uncomplicated as it was all consuming. Dorian had failed Alarion. It didn’t matter how so many people tried to convince him otherwise; Dorian knew the truth. And it was that crystal clarity of that made his grieving seem more reasonable therefore, as an extension, easier to accept. All of this pain was happening because Dorian botched just one more thing in his pathetic existence.

The only reason that knowledge didn’t consume Dorian whole was the counteracting knowledge that Alarion would never forgive him if he gave up like that. Dorian had to believe he’d see the elf again one day, and he wanted to be able to look him in the eye when that day came.

So he had forced himself to keep going knowing that’s what Alarion would have wanted him to do.

But now? Dorian had to be constantly reminded of his dereliction. His ultimate failure to protect the one he cherished above all else was now a door over, staring him down at every moment. The relentless reminder of his negligence.

And that wasn’t even the hardest part. It _killed_ Dorian to see the elf flinch at him. He was the last person in all of Thedas that wanted to hurt him, and he also was the one that Alarion was most terrified of. The Maker did have a sense of humor…

Before when Dorian entered the same room as the elf, Alarion would instantly brighten, and made no attempt to hide that fact either. Whether across the library or at the ball at Halamshiral, Alarion nearly always smiled whenever their eyes meant. Now, trembles of fear. Pleas of mercy. Things that only seemed reserved for Dorian, given the elf’s already fondness over Varric.

_“But if you’re so damn set on what we should discuss, maybe_ you _should go and talk to your elf.”_

How easy for Varric to talk. No doubt this was difficult for him to lose such a dear and close friend, but he didn’t have nearly as many memories together as Dorian did. He didn’t have to look that face and have reminiscences on how it should be, and wasn’t anymore. Varric didn’t lose _his_ _amatus_. Dorian did. And it was all his own damned fault.

But was this how it was to be for the rest of his life? Dorian mourning what should be while the elf just became even more distant? To wake up every morning knowing that he could never have that again? To commend himself to a life of anguish, but still hoping that Alarion found at least a shred of the happiness he deserved?

Maker, Dorian hoped not.

In a sense, though, it would be easier to ‘give up’ as Varric so delicately put it. To let this merciless guilt overpower all other emotions until he was utterly spent. Perhaps become nothing more than a mindless, albeit handsome, pawn of vengeance.

But Dorian Pavus was a fighter.

No reserve, not in war and not in love.

Before the flare of hope and determination could leave him, Dorian leapt to his feet. He walked two feet to the wall of drawers and cabinets. There, he found two apples. After taking a moment to breathe deeply, he walked over to Varric’s room to find the door still ajar and the dwarf still hard at working writing and reading various papers.

“I’m going to go and see him, Varric.” Dorian told his back. Varric gave a small start and began to turn around. “Thought you should know in case you need to, how’d you say? Ah yes – ‘smooth over any feathers’.”

Without waiting for a reply, Dorian left and marched straight towards the door. Once in front, he took a deep breath again, and willed his resolve to stay. Feeling nerves tickling the ends of his fingers, he gave a soft knock on the wood and waited for the shaking voice on the other side to reply a quiet, “Yes?” before pushing it softly.

Despite all his mental preparing for the last few weeks, it was still a shock to Dorian’s system to even see the elf. Lean handsome face, wide green eyes, a mess of dark brown hair atop of olive skin… There were a few differences than from Dorian’s memory of the man. His hair was longer and extremely unkempt, and his skin was lighter than he could remember, likely from the lack of sun. But it was still him. Alarion, alive…

Despite all the turmoil still raging inside, Dorian had to muster all the willpower he had not to rush at Alarion. To feel him in his arms again. The touch and taste of his lips against Dorian’s. Maker, it had been so long.

But all of that changed with an instance’s notice.

The elf’s face was perked when he had opened the door. His mouth not quite smiling, but almost. His eyes were bright and excited.

But once he landed sight on Dorian, his entire face dropped. His mouth fell open with a wordless cry. Eyes opening wide. The entirety of his mien warred between fear and shock before fear finally won.

“Please, don’t be afraid.” Dorian heard himself beg before he even realized he was talking. Quickly, he raised the two apples he had brought. He hesitated only a moment before his voice dipped serious. Far, far too serious for a simple question. “I was hoping we could share these apples together?”

Alarion paused for a long time, eyes never leaving Dorian’s face. It was if he was searching for something amongst Dorian’s expression. Finally, the spell broke in one swift action.

The man began to weep violently. His whole body shook with sobs, but his tearful eyes never left Dorian’s face.

“Please, _please_ let me go. Please don’t hurt me. _Please_! I’ll be good. _Please_ , don’t hurt me!”

The words felt as though a dagger was twisting into his gut. Struggling to hold back tears of his own, Dorian only nodded. Dipping down, he set both pieces of fruit on the floor before turning away. The door closed gently behind him, but the force sent his body tumbling forward. Shutting his eyes, Dorian made his way to his room by touch and memory only. From there, he shut and locked the door behind him before curling up into a ball with his back against it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excerpt from Codex entry: Blood Magic: The Forbidden School
> 
> I’m so sorry this is so late. My work had been insane over the holidays (especially when they start in November for the US), and likely it’ll stay just as insane until Superbowl; so bare with me please. I swear I'm writing with what little free time I get. I’m already half way through the next chapter, so hopefully it’ll be out sooner this time around.
> 
> I’m not sure if I have to mention this or not, but I don’t actually think it’s Dorian’s fault. It’s not. Just to be clear though: Dorian thinks that, I don’t.
> 
> Random facts:  
> With memories, Alarion’s greatest fear is being unwanted. Dorian knows this and that knowledge feeds into his sentiment that Dorian “abandoned him” when Alarion needed him most.  
> Without memories, Alarion’s greatest fear is pain.  
> My greatest fear is losing my memories. That wasn’t the inspiration for this story, it’s just a random tidbit.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, kudo-ing, and commenting. I re-read the comments left here whenever I’m having a practically bad day. It always puts me in a better mood.
> 
> FenarielTheDalishMage was my beta. He is awesome.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: References to sexual abuse and mild torture

‘Breathe in, breathe out. That’s it. Keep doing that.’

Nodding to his thoughts, Dorian attempted to collect himself before Varric arrived. He could easily recall all those nannies and teachers throughout his younger years on the importance of how he presented himself. He could remember a certain nanny scolding him for his eyelid twitching once. _“The slightest difference can show weakness, Little Pavus!”_

In Tevinter, every centimeter of himself was measured to perfection. His hair was attended to to the finest details. His clothes were constantly being updated to stay modern and trendy. His face was always carefully blank when it wasn’t flashing his charming smile. No sign of weakness for the enemies to exploit. Each word, chosen with care knowing the slightest word choice difference could mean a dagger in the side, or a partner to bed that night.

Constantly on guard. Constantly watching. Forever alert for potential dangers lurking in supposed “allies”.

It was one of the things that drew Dorian to Alarion in the first place.

He had been just so undeniably _happy_. Standing there in a Chantry with a recently closed Rift, with a blasted smile across his face. _“So, not a trap then? I had wondered.”_

Dorian, at first, had been convinced that the elf’s mask _was_ that smile. That Alarion had simply never been good at showing a careful blank face so he stuck to a smile. A ‘honey attracts more flies’ type of mask.

But as Dorian observed, he noticed that the elf smiled even when no one was around. He’d grin to himself as he picked elfroot to help bandage some poor soul’s wound. He would sit there with a content smile as he combed through a book on a bench outside his hut in Haven. And on missions when there was no one around to watch besides three others, he was always the first to smile, the first to laugh, and the first to extend a hand to anyone that needed it.

Alarion had never been afraid to show people he was happy.

When he was angry, you could feel the anger rolling off of him as his eyes set fire to your insides.

When he was sad, he gulped a lot. Dorian knew it to be his way to hold back tears.

And when he was scared? He’d grip his fists around something sturdy or fiddle with paper until it ripped to shreds.

Regardless of what emotion it was, why he was feeling it, or who was around to see, Alarion felt _no_ shame in letting people see his feelings as they were. Besides the few instances where he had been convinced (or, occasionally, bribed with strawberries) to actually play The Game, Alarion had no issue showing his true face for the world to see.

He would still hear his father whispering into his ear, _“Avoid scandal at all costs. Image is everything.”_ Even with the elf shrugging with a grin and saying, _“Eh, who cares what they think? They don’t know me or you. So why_ should _I care?”_

Dorian had _craved_ that type of person far more than he had ever realized. He wanted to be around someone so genuine in their ways and so honest about it the way they showed it. It was… refreshing, if a bit native.

And though the elf could nearly always, if easily, see through Dorian’s mask, Dorian never could make himself fully stop hiding behind bravo and jokes; though he had his moments where it would slip completely.

So many times he had found himself wishful that he could be more frank and honest like that blasted elf. That all those lesson hadn’t been pushed on him since he was a toddler.

Now, however, he desperate clung to those life old lessons. Dragging each to the forefront of his mind. Any and all instructions on how to hide the grief from his eyes. The heaving of his chest. The way his legs felt itchy and warm, wanting him to run and never look back.

Anything that would help.

As he took another deep breath, he opened his eyes that he couldn’t remember closing. The sunlight seeping through the canopy allowed rays to dance across his face. It was difficult to see, but Dorian forced himself not to squint. Image. Image.

The door to his side opened slowly. With a heavy sigh, Varric walked up before closing it behind him. He took a moment to spot Dorian leaning against the wall beside the entrance before giving him another sigh. “Well, I’ve calmed him down the best I could. Still a little jumpy, though.”

“Ah. Too many feathers for you?”

“You could say that.” The dwarf let out another huff of air before sitting down next to the human. They both looked ahead, instead of at each other. “Elf are mostly hairless, but they never said anything about feathers.”

There was a pause before Dorian let out a small laugh. “Varric, that joke was terrible. Not even Alarion’s jokes were ever that bad.”

“True, not one of my bests.” There was a long lapse before Dorian spotted Varric turning towards him through the corner of his eye.

He didn’t turn to face him. “Lovely weather we’re having. Nice and sunny.”

There was a pause before Varric let out a short chuckle through his first three words. “Are you seriously trying to start small talk right now?”

“Ah. I figured with his metaphorical hackles up, you need someone new to remark on the weather with.”

In response, Varric let out a brief chuckle before it turned into a sigh. “Shit, Sparkler.”

“Yes, quite.” He knew Varric meant, ‘Now what?’ but he wasn’t willing to answer that anymore than Varric wanted to ask.

So they sat in silence, watching the sun lower itself ever so slowly past the treeline.

It was Varric who finally broke the silence by his uncontrollably laughter. Dorian’s stomach alight with fury as he snapped a glare in Varric’s direction. What was possibly humorous about this situation? He watched in seething anger as Varric raised a hand to his forehead. “Shit.”

Before Dorian could find out exactly what was ‘shit’ now, both men leapt to their feet. In sync, they turned their attention towards the collection trees in front of them.

Rustling, panting, rocks shifting… Someone (or perhaps _people_ ) was coming and they were coming in _fast_! The flare of anger from before burned ever brighter as Dorian casted it, hands now aglow with flames. To his side, Varric removed Bianca from his back.

His staff may have been inside the house, but Dorian Pavus was far from helpless. Maker have mercy on whatever fools got through Leliana's safety measures to try and hurt Alarion.

Varric aimed. Dorian pulled at the Fade. They were silent, but both understood exactly what the other was going to do.

The noise grew louder. They tensed, perfectly ready. The clatter suddenly escalated as a thin figure came bursting through the coverage. Rags, knives on his side, but an oh so familiar hat atop his pale head.

Dorian let out a, “ _Vinste kaffas_ , Cole!” at the same time Varric huffed out a, “Maker, Kid!”

“You very nearly gave me a heart attack!” Dorian continued, letting the flames vanish.

But the lad ignored them both as he rushed towards the door. Dorian only had a passing moment to catch a glimpse of his expression, but the boy looked _desperate_.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,” he was chanting. He made it to the door, but couldn’t seem to get a strong enough grip to turn the handle. As Dorian and Varric drew near, it was clear that Cole’s hands were shaking far too much to get a steady grasp. He had yet to stop his long and frantic mantra of begging ‘no’s.

“Kid,” Varric said gently. He reached forward and slowly placed a hand over Cole’s shaking ones. “Take a deep breath.”

“V-Varric?” The boy looked shocked to see him. “Wh-why doesn’t Alarion remember me? I’m realer now. Everyone remembers me. I-I-I don’t understand.”

Dorian had to swallow before resting a hand on his shoulder. Cole was so skinny it barely felt like there was any substance below the rags he called clothes. “He doesn’t remember any of us, Cole. It was nothing you did.”

“I-I want to help.” Cole turned back to the door. “B-but I’m not sure how to. I-I…” He let out a wail, hands slipping out of Varric’s kind touch to cover his eyes as tears began to freely fall. “He doesn’t remember me!” he blubbered.

“Take a deep breath, Kid… Come on, Kid. It’ll help. Here, breathe with me.”

With an overabundance of patience, Varric gently led Cole away from the door, helping to regulate his breathing the entire way. Eventually, Varric eased Cole onto the ground, sitting next to him. With his breathing now even, Cole sat there with silent tears running down his still shaking face. He had his head tilted towards the house as if listening. But, then again, this was _Cole_. He probably was.

After a moment of tense silence with Varric and Cole sitting on the grass as Dorian looming over them, Varric let out a light chuckle. “Twist my tale, Kid; it’s good to see you. But how did you get here?”

“I-I…” He gulped, before looking up at Dorian. “I heard you hurting, Dorian. You needed me. It was so _loud_ even so far away! I-I didn’t understand. Why were you hurting more now? Cullen and Cassandra told me months ago that you needed space and I should let you decide if you wanted help. So you hurt about Alarion alone. B-but then when you were starting to heal, you were suddenly hurting _even more_!” He paused his monologue to let out a hiccup. “So I wanted to help. I started to walk. Then I found a boat. The captain let me ride after I untangled the hurt about his wife. Then I found a horse that wanted to help and he took me very far. When he got tired I walked the rest of the way.” The boy paused, looking up at Dorian wide blue eyes shimmering in tears. “I want to help you, Dorian. I-I didn’t even hear Alarion until I got much closer. I don’t understand. I heard Alarion leave. I felt him pass into the Fade. How is he alive?”

“Cole.” Dorian’s eyes widened. He bent down, gently gripping the boy’s shoulders. “What do you mean ‘Alarion passed into the Fade’?”

“I heard him scream.” The lad clapped his hands over his ears as if he could still hear it. “He didn’t want to lose. He wasn’t scared of dying, b-but he didn’t want to be erased. So he screamed very loudly. And I reached out. I wanted to find him – to help! But I couldn’t! I couldn’t. I couldn’t even hold his hand. I-I tried! I felt him fall through the Fade. I tried to help him! But I couldn’t follow him! I’m too solid and real. I-I had thought it meant he had died. Before, I have felt people slip into the Fade when they die. They have never been as loud as Alarion, though. I had thought it was because he is my friend. I-if I had known he was alive…!”

“You would’ve helped, I know.” Varric finished gently. “You couldn’t have known, Kid. None of us saw this coming.”

“The Fade…” Dorian mumbled, standing again.

If Cole had felt Alarion, _his_ Alarion fall through the Fade, that could explain the memory loss, couldn’t it? The average person making that sort of journey (outside of dreaming of course), would likely not survive. But his _amatus_ had physically walked the Fade not once, but a total of three times. A trip through the Fade was normal for him. A dangerous one, no doubt, but familiar nonetheless.

Dorian began to pace, barely listening to Varric attempting to sooth Cole.

The real question is who made Alarion slip out of this realm and why? What were they trying to gain? What could they possibly want?

Had his physical body gone as well? Or just his mind therefore his memories?

What was their aim? Surely the end goal hadn’t been a memory-loss elf. Even if they wanted him as a prized slave to parade around to others (those _bastards_! No, don’t think about it) there were easier ways to break a man into submission. Course, Dorian would’ve positively _murdered_ them for it. And not quickly either.

No, murderous thoughts later. Right now…

So, was it the case of an experiment gone wrong? The Anchor was pure Fade energy. Maybe someone was trying to do experiments on it. A clear situation of, ‘Let’s play with magic we don’t understand. It’ll make us incredibly powerful!’.

Ah. He had said that to Alarion once, hadn’t he?

“Dorian.” He looked over at his name to see Cole looking at him with unguarded concern plastered across his face.

He let out a sigh, feeling shame tickling his insides. “Forgive me, Cole. I should have made sure you were alright before I tried to figure out what had happened.”

The lad shook his head. “You just want to help Alarion. I do too. I just don’t know _how_.”

Varric sighed, leaning out of Cole’s space now that he looked less hysterical. “You can actually help us a lot, Kid. We need information more than anything else. Alarion’s too scared to give us any. Can you do your little mind-reading trick and tell us something we don’t know?”

After holding Varric’s gaze for a moment, Cole looked down at his wringing hands. “I’ll try. Alarion has always been bright and hard to hear. Like counting birds against the sun. Now there’s two suns and I make my own noises too. It’s very hard.”

“No one is expecting you to be perfect. Just give it your best try.”

Cole was silent for a moment before he threw his head back and began to cry again. “It’s Alarion! He’s alive! But he’s hurting so much. And it’s also hurting you! Both of you! I need to help!”

“You need to calm down, Kid.” Varric said, gently. “Do you need helping breathing again?”

“No I… I’m okay Varric. Thank you.”

Dorian watched as the boy began to shiver violently, still crying. He tried to think up a time he had actually seen the boy cry. Cole had come close a few times, sure, but never actually shed tears, from what Dorian could remember. But now, it seemed as though the lad could not stop. The mage felt his heart clutch. He bent down to the ground and placed a hand on Cole’s shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.

“Thank you, Dorian.” The lad whimpered, looking at him with the wide eyes. “You want to help me, but it should be the other way around. A-Alarion wouldn’t want you to blame yourself. This isn’t your fault.”

“Yes well…” He hesitated for only a moment. “He doesn’t exactly feel that way now, does he?”

“No, no, no! You’re looking at it all wrong! You keep thinking that you didn’t save him, but you did! H-he would’ve stayed with the magister if you didn’t find him in that market! You saved him!”

“Wait…” Dorian’s eyes widened, his grip suddenly tightening on Cole’s shoulder without thought. “The magister, Cole. Tell me who the magister is.”

The boy trembled under Dorian’s touch. “The Master. The Magister. The man from the beach. The one with terrible and wonderful fingers. The giver of both life and death. The everything. Master Magister Irian.”

Somewhere far away, Dorian heard Varric responding.

Irian.

Cole was looking at him now, with wide eyes. His mouth was moving quickly, but Dorian continued to stare without hearing.

I-ri-an. Where in the Maker’s name did he recognize that name from? He knew of all the magisters, but Irian was a common enough that it belonged to four people. Which was the bastard?

The feeling of ice water pouring on his soul hit him before his mind made the connection. He felt all his breath leave before he fought for air. After gasping for only a spilt second (fast enough that a small voice in the back of his head hoped Varric hadn’t have noticed), Dorian leapt to his feet.

The blood in his head was pumping so loudly that he couldn’t hear anything, even his own thoughts. He felt himself lunge forward, only to have something snag his arm and pull him back to where he was.

“Easy, Sparkler.”

Unable to stop himself, Dorian began to scream all the horrible things he was going to inflict upon that man. During a pause for breath, Varric chuckled. “Glad I didn’t understand that. Probably involved things my precious little ears couldn’t handle.”

“ _Quae tu loqueris de…? Kaffas!_ I’m going to find that man, and I’m going to kill him!”

“Promise broken. Didn’t protect him. Left him to suffer. Didn’t look. My fault. The bastard. The one that kept him from me! My fault. Paper on papers. Words dancing on the pages. Nights spent with an ache in the back that now lives in the heart. All my fault.” Cole rambled frantically. “Should have been there. Should have been there. I should have been there.”

“Thank you, Cole!” He snapped. “There’s nothing quite like hearing that out loud, is there?”

The lad flinched, hiding behind his hands. “This is like Haven, Dorian. He’s not dead just like he wasn’t dead then. It wasn’t your fault then, and it isn’t now. You weren’t there, and that’s not. Your. Fault!”

He opened his mouth to argue, but Varric kicked him in the shin before he could. “Leave the Kid alone. He’s here to help!”

“Fighting, always fighting! Don’t shrink away! You can change right this time. Make things right. You owe them all. None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for me.” Cole suddenly let out a shrieking wail. “I want to help! Let me help him.”

Dorian shook his head, turning towards the gate again. Later! That could all wait until later. Right now, he had a magister to kill. Just thinking about it made the air crackle with barely contained storm magic.

“Dorian stop!” Varric strolled in front of him, blocking the entrance. “I want the bastard just as dead as you do! This is a magister we’re talking about! Killing him could get you executed or imprisoned. What good can you do then?”

“It’d be worth it!” He growled. The air around them snapped loudly, everyone’s hairs now standing on end. In any other situation, Dorian would be furious with himself for losing even this much control. As it was, any and all fury was being fueled into his smoldering hatred towards the bastard of Amladaris House.

“Saved my life. Home, safe.” Cole shook his head, tears still falling. “Alarion thinks he saved him, not hurt him. If he ever found out, he would never trust us again. We’d lose all hope to help.”

“Plus,” Varric turned back to Dorian, face and voice firm. “Plus, we need more information. This nug-humping bastard might be the only person to know exactly how Alarion lost his memories and whether or not it could be reversed.”

Despite this logic, Dorian still made a move towards the gate. He only stopped when Cole ran in front of him as well. “Please Dorian! Alarion needs you! He needs help. If you go, he’ll never trust you. A-and…” The boy grew quiet enough that his voice came out as a hint of a wisp. “Alarion didn’t let me kill the Templar that killed me. He would have never wanted one of us to kill someone for revenge. Especially his own revenge.”

For a moment, Dorian couldn’t even breathe. Behind him, Varric nudged him. “Do this for the elf.”

The anger trickled out of him, but didn’t vanish. Instead of pushing past the two and charging out, he curled his fists. “Fine. But I _will_ kill him. Make no mistake of that.”

“But… but Alarion!” The lad’s protest ended quickly his eyes gaining that far off look as his voice blurred. “Every action is watched. Every move evaluated. Say or do something wrong and I will be punished. Strike across the face. Burn my arms with candles; no marks but pain, raw, burning, always burning with unspoken cries. Or he’ll hold me down, letting his hands roam as I whimper and beg to die. But never out loud.”

A beat of a second. Dorian’s hands grew limp and heavy, knees stumbling and hitching before they gave out and he tumbled to the floor. Head spinning. Throat, difficult to breathe and impossible to swallow. Tiny invisible worms tingled across his skin. His chest heaved, trapping the air in it while simultaneously threatening to lose its contents. Run. Get away. _Now_!

A beat of a second. Then another. Dorian could only blink as Cole continued his uncontrollable rambling. “Soft, round, _wrong_! Anaka is always worse than Master. Binds, roughed leather. Tighten around my wrists. Purple thumbs and I try and escape, futile. Dry, used, old leather tried around my mouth. Not a sound. Never a sound.

“Her hands grab, seeking and always taking. Worse, my hands on her. Soft, round, _wrong, wrong, wrong_! If I don’t do it right, she uses magic. Blasts of cold. Ice crystals on my toes. Beautiful in their pain. Aching I feel for days. Silent winces.

“Master is–”

“Kid.” Varric’s clear firm voice cut through the chatter as easily as a warm knife in butter. “Stop. Now.”

“I-I made the hurt worse, didn’t I? I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! I-I want to help! But Alarion is even brighter now and I make my own noises too! I’ve been trying to hear him, but it’s so hard! Then it just came out!”

“Breathe Kid. Just breathe.”

Dorian blinked a few times, trying to follow the conversation to the best of his abilities. Why was he looking at the muddy ground? Why couldn’t he lift his head?

“Sparkler.” A pair of fingers invaded his sight, snapping as they did. Dorian followed the motion the best he could, but found his head didn’t want to rise more than the little it did. However, it allowed him to face Varric properly at least. The dwarf had on a large frown and noticeably paler skin. “Come on, stay with me Sparkler.”

The mage let out a light chuckle that equal held and lacked mirth. “Where would I possibly go, Varric? I can’t bring myself to deprive you of my company.”

Varric didn’t smile in response, but his eyes twinkled. “Sure, keep being a smug little ass. I prefer that over the shocked non-responsive _altus_.”

Before Dorian could quip back, Cole let out a gasp, fingers rising to his lips. His eyes widened beyond the point they already were. “I… I can help him. I know how to help!”

Only a second passed before Varric jumped on. “Great Kid! What’s the plan?”

“Mind bending, shaping. Fade pushing, pulling, pulsing. Mind making shape to all things.” Cole blinked, before his head snapped up, eyes wide and red. “I can make him forget.”

After a long while, Cole looked between the two, face and voice revealing his confusion. “Why aren’t you happy? This will help him.”

Varric let out a sigh, drawing closer to Cole. “Alarion has already forgotten us. That’s not the problem.”

“No, not that. Not us. Mind so full of color… Alarion can’t remember us through the light. B-but the bad things? The things that came after the light? Hands, beating, pushing, grabbing… Alarion needs to forget that. I can help. I haven’t been able to make people forget anymore. But his mind is so… _bright_. I can do it.”

Dorian took a sharp inhale before hissing out, “You want to _take away more memories_! Don’t you think Alarion has forgotten enough?”

Cole flinched, giving a small whimper. “Cold, hard, pain. Constant and unmoving. When will they do the same? Kind voiced, but hidden in thorns? When will the strike come?” He shook his head before continuing. “Master’s grip is too strong. It makes Alarion so scared! The fear blinds him to our help. I can help with that! I can make him forget.”

There was silence for a moment. During it, Dorian’s mind was anything but kind. He kept seeing the images of his beloved. Candles burning in him. Hands tied up. That revolting twisted _evil_ man! His hands…

Dorian knew every inch of Alarion’s skin. He spent months mapping it out in his head. Reveling in the knowledge that this was something only he knew. That Alarion not only let him, but loved Dorian’s touch.

To know that… that…

His stomach began to retch. Before Dorian knew what was happening, he was heaving and waving off any help. After all, the vile taste in his mouth couldn’t compare to the feeling swirling in his stomach.

All this time… Dorian had been feeling sorry for himself. Hating himself for not protecting Alarion. Feeling wretched that Alarion was petrified of him. Flinching at him. Begging that he would suddenly remember and love him again.

All this time, Dorian had wanted revenge for keeping Alarion away from him for so long and for making him lose his memories.

And whenever Alarion would flinch and beg to be let go, Dorian had no idea as to why. But how? How had he never wondered how deeply tortured Alarion had been this whole time? All this time loathing himself for not protecting him, had Dorian never fully understood from what?

Dear Maker. Dorian was a horrible person.

“Dorian!” Cole suddenly appeared on his side, hugging him tightly. Despite it, Dorian barely felt him. “Dorian, please! This isn’t your fault! Alarion would have never blamed you for this. He doesn’t blame you for this! You’re thinking about it all wrong! Please, Dorian.”

“Dear Maker.” Dorian responded.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to burn down all of Thedas and laugh as the screams filled the air. He wanted Alarion to come running out of the house to give him a smile and a hug. He wanted for none of this to happen. He wanted to have never left Alarion behind in Skyhold, all teary-eyed but grinning as they said goodbye. His hands trembling as he cupped Dorian’s face and placed their foreheads together. His shaking departing words of, _“_ Creators _, Dorian. I am going to miss you so much. I just love you so much. Please write often.”_

Dorian hadn’t wanted to leave. He had wanted to stay by Alarion’s side for forever. But he couldn’t. He had to make Tevinter a better place. It was his duty.

Damn Alarion for being so understanding and supportive.

“He wanted you to follow your dreams, Dorian.”

“I should have never left, Cole.”

Maker, there were so many things Dorian _wanted_.

He… he wanted to forget it all.

Gently but firmly pushing out of Cole’s embrace, he turned to Varric. The dwarf looked so… stuck. So uncharacteristically unsure and quiet.

This… this was Dorian’s choice wasn’t it?

“Dear Maker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's favorite spirit is here to help!
> 
> So... Those who haven't noticed the little note I added to my summary:  
> I stopped writing for a bit because I had a friend die. Oddly enough, I can't write angst when I'm upset. But I'm alright now, promise. And, as usual, writing has been very therapeutic. So I started to write again. Then I had my wifi turned off. Then I got semi-fired because I got injured on the job.  
> And finally, my beta reader FenarielTheDalishMage is really sick and, shockingly, hasn't been feeling up to beta my work. I hope you'll join me in sending him internet hugs.  
> But I've had this chapter written for over a month and it's been killing me not to post it. So I decided to update. As such, this isn't beta-ed. If you see mistakes, please let me know and I'll edit them.


	12. Chapter 12

Alarion awoke to a sharp pain stretching across his temple to his forehead on his right side. He winced, groaned, and sat up rubbing it absentmindedly. Perhaps will alone would dull the pain. Couldn’t hurt not to try.

He stood now, stretching out his aching muscles. After failing to run his fingers through his bedhead, he returned to rubbing his piercing temple. His throat was dry too. Just as the thought crossed his mind, Alarion spotted a glass of water sitting atop the desk on the right side of the room. As he gulped it down greedily, he made a mental note to thank Varric.

Wait! Varric… Oh Varric.

It had been so _easy_ to forget. To forget that he had been kidnapped by a mad mage with unknown goals. To forget where he was. To forget he was a slave whose master was undoubtedly _furious_ with him. Whenever Varric opened his mouth, Alarion had simply _forgot_ his fears and worries and certainties. He would be lost in whatever story Varric would spin. Demons, dragons, bandits, love, loss, death, victory.

The elf paused in his thinking. Was that their plan? Have Varric with his kind voice, good nature, and charming smile come in to calm Alarion down? If so, then why? Whatever purpose they had for him, they didn’t exactly need his cooperation. Even if Alarion went kicking and screaming, there was nothing to stop them from draining the blood from his veins.

Was that even their plan?

It was difficult for the elf to imagine that Varric meant him any harm at all. When Alarion had finally gathered enough courage to ask if he planned to kill him, Varric had seemed so… appalled by the idea. And Alarion was nearly certain that he had’t been acting. He may have been good-for-nothing, but Alarion knew how to read body language. The slightest variation in facial expressions meant his master wanted him or he was to stay in the shadows. That meant the difference between a strike to the face or a meal in his stomach. It was one of the few things Alarion knew he had skill in. So, he would have been very surprised to find out that Varric hadn’t been genuine. His wrinkled nose, just slight enough that it wasn’t a conscious act. Eyes wide. His hand almost moving to touch his own throat, but was caught just before completing the action. _“I could never hurt you, Glowy.”_ He had whispered, voice almost shaking, but disbelief oozing from it. _“You’re such a good friend to me. I would never ever wish any harm on you.”_

He did that sometimes, Alarion noticed, nudging the bed with a toe. Though he had no clue as to why, Varric would call him ‘Glowy’ instead of ‘Alarion’.

Now, the elf froze in place. At what point had ‘Alarion’ become his name?

It just seemed to natural. The elf had always wanted a name to call his own. Something so small, yet _his_. He had been tempted once or twice to ask his master for one whenever he saw him call another slave by theirs. He never did, of course. Too dangerous. But when Varric would smile and call him, ‘Alarion’… it just felt so right.

 _Kaffas_! He had grown attached to Varric. That was bad.

Feeling jittery, he began to pace, thinking hard.

Varric worked with that madman Dorian. He had been able to ignore and forget that whenever Varric came to visit, but seeing Dorian again made him remember it all once more.

But who was Dorian really? The man himself had asked Alarion the same question once back before Alarion had ever learned his name. His face had looked like a terrible mix of fury and fear, barking out, _“Who am I? You know who I am!”_ As if Alarion should’ve recognized him on the spot.

The way the madman had raced through the crowd just to get to him. The hug. His eyes had almost filled with tears just looking at Alarion’s face. _“I’d kill you for making me suffer so!_ ” Alarion tried in vain to run, but his grip was just too strong. A slow hand reached forward to remove his glove. The other, came up to muffle his screams. His eyes were so hardened and sad. _“Forgive me,_ amatus _.”_ he had whispered just before he sent lightning into his body to knock him out.

Why?

Alarion paused in his pacing to turn back towards the desk. After a moment’s hesitation, he opened one of the drawers to spot two red apples. He remembered how sincerely Dorian had seemed with his request of just the two of them eating together. Alarion knew he had reacted terribly but he had been so scared, so surprised, so unhappy to see the mage instead of Varric. It had forced him to remember the bad circumstances that led to him being on that bed.

At the time, the only thought racing through his head was, _‘why was Dorian here?’_.

_“We were really close, once.”_

Were they? Was that why Dorian took him from the market? Was that why he had tried to visit him again? But if they were so close, once, then why had Dorian never looked for him? _“Why didn’t you tell me you were alive?”_ Was that why he had seemed so Maker-damned shocked to see Alarion alive and walking around? Was that why he took Alarion to this place? Was he planning on hurting him at all?

“Of course he is, idiot.” He mumbled to himself. Always anticipate the pain. Always foresee the strike. Always expect magic. Doing anything else just led to worse pain and suffering. “You’d be foolish to hope for anything different.”

Dorian the madman was clearly dangerous. The moment Alarion let his guard down, he knew that the mage would take the advantage. His endgame unknown or not, it couldn’t be anything good. That’s why he had tried to seem so friendly the two times he showed up at that door.

As the thought crossed his mind, Alarion approached the door, glaring down at the handle. So often Varric had told him that he can come out of the room when he felt comfortable enough to. But whenever he thought about it, the thought terrified him beyond belief. It would cause his whole body to tense so violently that it would be difficult to breathe. Sometimes, he couldn’t come down from the panic until long after they it had begun.

So why didn’t it feel so petrifying anymore?

It was still scary, but Alarion suddenly felt like he could take it. He didn’t know why or what had changed, but he wasn’t willing to give up the chance now that his body wasn’t betraying him in his fear.

Taking a deep breath, Alarion turned the knob and pushed gently. The door opened with little noise, allowing a single inch of view. Cautiously looking around, Alarion noticed that he was in a rather plain wooden house, identical to the room he was in. His door began into a short hallway that opened into a small open area where a single wooden table laid in the middle of the room with similar simple wooden chairs. The floor was wooden as were the walls. A glance back into his room revealed it to have slightly better variety with his bed adorned with almost forest-like patterns. Looking back into the hallway and the small room it opened into, Alarion couldn’t help but frown as he noted the lack of any decor at all. It was so very plain.

 _This_ was what he had been so scared of?

Opening the door fully now, Alarion took a sweeping glance of the open room in front of him, but saw nothing of interest besides that plain old table with four chairs. Only a partial of the room was blocked from view from the hallway. He was just going to poke his head around the corner to see what was on the other side. Then, he was going to retreat back to his room. Just one look.

But before he could take the step forward, a voice drifted from the side he could not see. “Hello.”

Alarion let out a squeak, pushing himself against the wall behind him. He immediately raised hands to his mouth. No sound. Never a sound. Maybe the owner of the voice didn’t see or hear him. But it was futile. The owner came around the corner, in full view now. He was a small boy, young and skinny. He wore rags and a large hat atop his head. There was a moment where he stood staring at the ground before he moved his head up enough that Alarion could see his pale, sunken face.

“Don’t be afraid.” The boy whispered. “My name is Cole. I want to help you.”

It was… someone new! There were others in this house besides Varric and the madman! Finding it difficult to breathe, Alarion began to hyperventilate. His knees couldn’t support his weight and they collapsed beneath him. As he fell, the back of his head banged against the wall. _Andraste_ , what was this boy going to do to him?

“You’re hurt.” He whispered, sounding so frantically worried. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m sorry.”

Alarion couldn’t reply even if he had wanted to. His mouth had stopped responding after it had fallen open.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” The boy promised gently. Carefully, he lowered himself so they were eye level. What was he going to do now? Spit in his eyes? Throw a punch? “I won’t do either of those things. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t. But I don’t want to. I want to help.”

“D-don’t… _please_ don’t hurt me.”

The lad shook his head, slowly. “I wouldn’t. I won’t. I promise.”

Alarion just shook his head. He didn’t believe him. How could he believe him? Everyone wanted to hurt him. No one wanted what was best for him. He was nothing. Lower than nothing. He was just a stupid slave who forgot his place. It was _him_ that did what _others_ wanted.

“No, no,” The boy frantically murmured. “I did it wrong! I-I… Alarion, I promise I won’t hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Alarion simply shook his head again. Who _was_ he?

“My name is Cole.” He whispered. “I am your friend. I want to help you. Let me try this.”

Before Alarion could figure out exactly what this ‘Cole’ was going to do to him, the boy closed his mouth and began to… hum?

The notes were strange. Music unlike he had ever heard. At times, Master would order a slave to play a song on a lute. The notes would drift through the house, cutting into the silence like a knife. It always made Alarion uneasy. Silence was constantly a requirement of the slaves. The ones working outside were allowed to sing as they worked, and the ones in the kitchens were allowed to talk as they worked… but everyone else was to be completely silent. Outside and in the kitchen. Those were the only places an elf was allowed to make any noise without being prompted to do so.

So when music sounded throughout the mansion, it made Alarion so very apprehensive.

It didn’t help that, at times, music was played to sound out screams of those being sacrificed for their blood.

It wasn’t until this moment with this boy here that Alarion realized that music didn’t have to be edgy and unsettling.

Instead, the song was so vastly different that anything he had ever heard. The notes seemed to float over him, swaddling him into a warm cloud. The sound drifted over his head like a mist, making his eyes close without thought.

The music continued. Soft. Gentle. Almost sad, but not in a way that made him disquieted. No, it was calming in its way.

…Could a song be wise?

Alarion decided not to think about it too hard. And he just let the music wash over him.

And in that moment, Alarion had no fears. No exceptions. No hopes. He simply was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FenarielTheDalishMage is the best beta there is :D


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally supposed to be part of the last chapter, but it ran long.  
> Reference to my story 'Shovel Talk'. You don't need to read it to understand this, but it goes into more detail.

In many ways, Dorian wished he hadn’t been close enough to hear Cole speaking. For a while, he had debated about ignoring it and staying away from Alarion. He knew it would be painful to lay eyes on the elf now that he knew what Alarion had been through. What made Dorian go forward was the knowledge that he would’ve been a coward to avoid Alarion just because it would be difficult, and he was certain that if Cole managed to learn something noteworthy, the boy would either not remember or tell them in a cryptic way that would be harder to understand than it would be to get answers from the elf himself.

He arrived just in time to see a frantic Cole, with his back towards him, waving his hands violently murmuring, “No, no, I did it wrong! I-I… Alarion, I promise I won’t hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Thank the Maker the elf didn’t see Dorian standing there watching the two of them sitting in that small hallway leading to Alarion’s room. Alarion seemed scared enough of poor Cole; it would’ve likely given him a heart attack to see Dorian as well.

Alarion… the man who had been tortured, attacked, and violated. To be hurt and touched by that evil _bastard_ …!

Said elf shook his head in response, his eyes wide and terrified. His breathing was starting to scare Dorian. If he kept that up, he might make himself pass out.

Cole seemed to notice this as well as he quickly spoke up, voice soft and concerned. “My name is Cole. I am your friend. I want to help you. Let me try this.”

To Dorian’s surprise, the boy began to gently hum a quiet tune. It was soft, peaceful, as well as melancholy. And as Alarion’s face slowly dropped its panicked expression and his eyes slowly drooped, Dorian’s heart twisted.

Maker, he knew that song.

_We had been given two days to enjoy ourselves before Alarion’s advisors whisked him away to the Exalted Plains. Alarion had been disappointed that his, as he dubbed it, ‘mini-vacation’ with myself has to be interrupted._

_We won’t be separated, however, as I’ve been invited along to join him in a new countryside to go gallivanting through. I don’t know quite what to make of it. On the one hand, I almost nearly join him on every mission. On the other, we haven’t much talked about our… relationship of all things._

_Maker! Even the mere thought of the word ‘relationship’ has my insides panicking in giddy joy. It seems far too good to be true, really. This childlike selfish desire for more to be mutual? Maker._

_I think Alarion realizes I still have doubts. When he had asked me to come on the mission with him, he had glanced around to make sure no one was watching before lacing his fingers through mine. I had, of course, shown nothing different on my face, but the simple act had me screaming on the inside (it is simply too good to be true that he wants me of all people). Alarion had grinned mischievously, as if he knew what he was doing to me, before giving my knuckles a soft pepper of a kiss with the rumbling words of, “Thank you,_ ma’arla _.”_

_Of course, I had him up against the bookshelf in an instant, his laughter swallowed up before it could escape properly._

_“You’re happier now, Dorian.”_

_I give a small mental startle, coming out of my head. It takes me a moment to realize Cole was the one talking. “Is that what that light, tingly feeling is? I suppose you’re right.”_

_“Wishing but wondering, wounded and wistful. What if he doesn’t want me after?”_

_I can’t help the grin that stretches across my face. “But he did!”_

_“Now you’re smiling.” Cole clasps his hands together, grinning wildly. “It’s_ good _.”_

_Alarion turns around, a smile also plastered across his face. “And I always will.” He declares quietly before turning back to the road in front of us._

_I snort and make some comment about him being full of syrup, trying to ignore how warm and happy I feel. ‘Happier now’ indeed._

_Cole looks at me briefly before turning towards the front of the group. “Alarion, being here makes you happy.”_

_He laughs before responding. “Indeed it does, Cole. It’s_ Elvhen _land.”_

_“A promise defiled by quickness.” Cole rambled quickly. “It also makes you sad.”_

_“Indeed it does, Cole.”_

_“I’m sad that elves died here too. They shouldn’t have.”_

_“But you have to remember, this is also a place of pride. They refused to surrender. ‘We are the last of the_ Elvhenan _, and never again shall we submit’.” Alarion looks back, his smile smaller than before, but still on his face before turning back to see where he is walking. “I’m still happy to be here.”_

_“There are Dalish up ahead. That makes you happy too.”_

_“I am excited to see some of my people.” Alarion rubs his hands together, still looking ahead. “I am a little nervous, though. It’s been a long time since I’ve been near a clan.”_

_“They know you’re coming. They want to see little heart.”_

_Before I can even begin to wonder what_ that one _meant, Cassandra, who had been walking at the front of the group with Alarion, looks back. “I see red sails ahead.”_

 _Alarion, honest-to-the-Maker,_ squeals _! He runs forward, ignoring the Seeker’s and my protests. Cole said nothing, simply moving faster with the rest of us._

_By the time we catch up, Alarion is already talking with the Keeper. He turns straight to me, spouting about how we’re going to help them rid some demons, get a Golden Halla from a Dalish legend, and give them medical supplies. Only the overly excited grin on his face stops me from pointing out that we were becoming no better than herding, demon-fighting, servants._

_A few hours later as the sun is near to set, we arrive back into the Dalish Camp. Exhausted, battle worn, and a Golden Halla in tow._

_But my complaints get struck in my throat as Alarion is gushing about how we’re allowed to spend the night with the clan. “Not only that,_ ma’arla _, they’re throwing a party for us!”_

_As the night wears on, I realize that this is the happiest I’ve seen him in months. He’s laughing harder than I’ve ever seen as he teaches Cole how to dance to their Dalish music. Likely, he’s giving Cassandra Dalish cuisine because she’s too worry about offending the Dalish by refusing and is making delightful disgusted noises as she eats it._

_I’m not being ignored, per say. Alarion still comes over to me, sitting on the rug I claimed and explaining various parts of his culture to me. It is fascinating to listen to, I admit, but I am not as happy as I’m showing externally._

_Because eventually he is brought back into the party I can’t participate in like Cole and Cassandra can. I know I’m not exactly welcomed here, Tevinter mage and all. The clan has stopped glaring outright at me, at least. Two Dalish, however, laugh when they hear Alarion call me ‘_ ma’arla’ _. When they tease said elf about it, Alarion blushes brighter than a tomato, even through his dark skin. I am tempted to ask why, but the elves growl at me when Alarion isn’t looking._

_I smile at them, ignoring their hateful glances. They’re nothing compared to the treatment I often received back home. Frankly, they should be acting worse. Well, now that I think about it, it’s likely because of Alarion’s influence they’re not. Still, his approval of me only seems to let them tolerate me just enough._

_I’m not welcome here. I’m not allowed to be part of this festivities._

_And the music and laughter continues into the night as if to spite me._

_The jovial atmosphere suddenly, and without warning hours later, takes a softer tone as every elf, Alarion including, start to hum slow song without much words. The song was nearly sad, but not in a way that makes me uneasy. It is almost peaceful. Cole, who’s sitting beside me, makes some comment about promises and humans._

_Ah. The plight of the elves. Full of pride and sorrow. What a perfectly fitting song._

_After the song ends, the party begins to wind down as the camp simultaneously begins to clean up and head to bed. Alarion’s, Cassandra’s, Cole’s and my help are turned down as we’re encouraged to sleep. Cole, explaining he does not sleep, helps anyway. I, however, have had nearly enough of the famous Dalish hospitality and turn in without complaint._

_I expect to spend the rest of the night alone as I have done so so far. I am, however, pleasantly surprised as a lean figure slips in after I have already removed my robes and have entered my (finally) warm bedroll. He quickly strips off his thin armor (I appreciate the view and waste no time telling him just to see his ears turn red) before he instantly crawls on top of my bedroll and myself._

_He is so light and small that his entire weight on me does nothing but make me chuckle. With his stomach pressed against mine, I can feel the vibrations from my own laughter._

_Alarion grins down at me, face only an inch from mine, his chest rising in sync with me._

_The elf looks just so painfully_ happy! _So happy._

_Without a word, he is kissing me deeply. Warm, soft, wonderful lips that I know I will feel against mine long after we separate. Sure enough, I can still feel the tingling even as Alarion pulls back with a large grin plastered across his blasted face. “Creators Dorian! This has been one of the best days of my life!” He whispers, voice holding the same joy held in his words and face. “I can’t tell you how happy I was getting to show you a little bit of the Dalish culture. It’ll be even better when I take you to my clan.”_

_In an instant, his smile falls away from his face. It turns immediately into an open mouthed look of almost horror. His eyes grow distance and an almost silent cry of anguish slips from his lips._

_A weight suddenly appeared on my chest that had nothing to do with Alarion currently lying on top of it. Without hesitation and without warning (because that look just_ won’t _do), I flip the elf around. He gives out a surprised cry as his back hits the bottom of the tent. I pin him to the ground with my whole weight. The elf wiggles for only a few moments of mock resistance. He looks up at me now, tears brimming at the edges despite his half-forced smile._

_I immediately begin to kiss him. When I pull away, his grin is back and genuine, but his eyes are simply too tight to be anything other than turmoil. In fact, his face is slowly dropping the happiness and drawing in anguish._

_I kiss him again. And again. And again. As many times as it takes until the elf is properly distracted. I can’t do more anything more than this, however. Not with an audience so near._

_It takes awhile, but eventually Alarion is asleep, curled up against me in my bedroll with a peaceful smile, even in sleep._

_I don’t often pray, in fact, I rarely do. But for Alarion I close my eyes and send out a silent plea to the Maker._

_Please,_ please _let his clan live through this. Don’t do this to him. Not him._

Even before Dorian had learned that Alarion had sacrificed himself for those young elves, he had known exactly how important his clan was to him. When they were being attacked by bandits and the nobles of Wycome, Alarion had spent many nights awake and walking all over Skyhold. Often, the guards would come and get Dorian (shocked him beyond words that they knew and didn’t care that _Dorian_ of all people was the one their Inquisitor was with) who would talk the elf down from the battlements and into a warm bed.

 Alarion cared so much about his clan he had been willing to die or be submitted to slavery for them.

If Alarion had known at that moment that he’d lose his memories and wind up tortured by a sadist magister, he would’ve still have done it, no hesitation. Likely, his only regret wouldn’t have been some intelligent reason like losing his hopes, dreams, and desires. No. He would’ve been upset because he’d know that this would cause excruciating grief on Dorian as well as their friends.

Dorian titled his head, staring carefully at the scene in front of him with Cole gently humming that old Dalish song and Alarion sitting quietly, eyes closed and listening. As Cole’s song began to end, Alarion’s eyes began to open. Best if he left before he was spotted. Quietly, Dorian backed away and slipped away into his room behind him.

Once alone, he sat down on his bed and placed his face into his hands.

It had been as hard to see Alarion as he suspected it would be. But, it had proved both therapeutic and reminiscent as well.

Somehow along the way, Dorian had seemed to have forgotten that Alarion would’ve chosen this life to save innocents. It had been easy to accept that he had given his life to save someone (especially those in his clan), but he had refused to accept that Alarion would’ve given up his memories.

Dorian Pavus was a fool who forgot one simple fact about his _amatus_ :

That blasted idiot would sacrifice anything to save those he cared about.

Whispering, quietly enough for only his ears, Dorian breathed out a, “Damned selfless bastard.”

He remembered what Varric had told him over a year ago, “ _It’s his selflessness that would lead to any type of pain between you two. If it came down to it, Glowy would sacrifice himself to save Thedas a hundred times over. He has no choice, really. His heart is too pure to do anything other than the right thing. You, on the other hand, would rather see the world burn before you let a single hair on his head be touched.”_

 _Kaffas_! Dorian had even agreed with Varric at the time. If only he had known just how right that dwarf could be.

Sighing, Dorian straightened his back and stared at the ceiling above. The knowledge that Alarion would’ve chosen this life to save those elves felt as though an enormous weight had been removed off his chest. Because he _would’ve_ sacrificed anything to save his clan. He would’ve considered this all this a fair deal in exchange for those elves.

Dorian still knew that he should’ve been there to protect and rescue him, but it felt relieving to remember that Alarion would’ve never blamed him when he felt as though he had made a good trade.

Alarion would have never blamed him.

How could Dorian have forgotten that?

And suddenly, Dorian was laughing. Honestly, how could he not? Though Dorian still would never forgive himself, knowing his _amatus_ would’ve never faulted him felt far more freeing than Dorian had ever imagined it could before.

Besides, he _had_ to laugh because he knew why Cole did this. He knew that Cole had hummed that to calm Alarion down as much as he did it to remind Dorian what he had been trying to tell him since he arrived here last night.

_“Alarion would have never blamed you for this.”_

“He always was a better person than me.” Dorian whispered out loud. Immediately, Varric’s reply rang in his head.

_“He still is better than all of us. I flat out refuse to believe my good friend is gone. He’s somewhere in there. You’ll see.”_

Was he? Was Varric, who just seemed to _always_ see straight through people, once again seeing the future and seeing that Alarion, his Alarion, was still in there under all that fear?

‘ _Careful Pavus,_ ’ The voice in his head chastised. ‘ _Hope is dangerous. You need to learn not to hope. It’d be foolish too_.’

But, to his own surprise, he grinned against the voice of reason. “So let’s be foolish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FenarielTheDalishMage was my awesome beta.  
> Thank you guys for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

_Have I mentioned lately how much I really hate Tevinter? Cause I do. Like, I really do. ~~Why didn’t Anders blow them up instead?~~_

_Anyway, I’m sorry to hear about your friend, Varric. It’ll probably be some time after you wrote me you’ll get this, and I hope in that time you and him… um, re-talked? Became friends again? Some further shit that’s supposed to sound comforting? I’m not exactly good with this. If I was there, I’d get you so drunk you couldn’t read these words cause the letters would dance and shit. That was also supposed to sound comforting. Have I mentioned how bad I am at this? Cause I am._

_The Inquisitor was good to me in the short time I got to know him. He even gave me chocolate once. Hid it in my bed roll, though. Was that a Dalish thing? Probably not. Merrill never did that. I didn’t get to know him very well, but he seemed like a good person. Just makes me want to set fire to Tevinter even more. Have I mentioned I hate them?_

_But if you think I’m going to tell any of this to Fenris, you got another thing coming! I’d rather not be yelled at about the depravity about magisters now that we’ve finally moved past yelling at me about leaving and the yelling about the wardens, and the yelling about the Fade, and just broody yelling in general._

Varric paused his reading to smile. There was a small note written in the margin next to it in small but scrawny handwriting.

 

_I do not brood!_

 

Chuckling, Varric continued.

 

_I hope you find the bastard that did this. And if you need help killing him, let me know! I’m sure I can wrap this up with the wardens in no time!_

 

In the margins was the word, written with less eloquence: _No._

 

 _It’s good to hear from you Varric, even if you only ever write me when it’s shit news. Why is that? Is it too much to ask for you to just write,_ ‘Oh hey Hawke! I miss you!’ _._

 

In the margins was the word: _Yes._

_Give my love to Bela when you see her. Tell her it’s love from Hawke with tongue!_

_Love,_

_Hawke_

_… And apparently Fenris. Evidently he reads these before I send them out. Great. That’s going to be a fun conversation. I blame you._

_PS Beth misses you. She’s too stupid to talk yet, but I know these things. I know lots of things._

_PSS If you think that’s my way of saying I miss you, don’t kid yourself._

 

Chuckling again, Varric pocketed the letter before stretching slowly. It was good to hear from Hawke, even if she didn’t exactly have new information. Not that he had assumed any differently. Still, he had the small hope that Fenris, his _other_ glowing elven friend that happened to lose to memories in Tevinter while becoming a slave, could shed just a little light on this.

He should probably check Leliana’s drop spot again to see if he had gotten any more information from Isabela. Her last letter was three days old, and she had been getting close. Any day now they’d have passage and the last thing he wanted was to keep Isabela waiting. He’d like to find the dock not on fire when they finally got there. Sighing, he stood up and turned around. Only to jump as an undignified yelp left his lips.

There standing in the doorway, with his large glowing yet lifeless eyes staring at him, was Alarion. “Maker, Glowy! Give me a heart attack?” He chuckled, shaking his head. When Alarion suddenly looked worried, he quickly smiled at him. “Glad to see you getting out of your room a little. Do you have any idea how bad it smells in there? You need a bath, Alarion.”

Alarion smiled, then frowned, then turned blank. His movements were so subtle, so small. It only now occurred to Varric just how attenuate someone could be in their facial expressions. Which words would most accurately describe such small movements? Miniscule? Slight? Unnoticeable unless seen by an attentive eye? Ah, that was good.

“I’m joking, Alarion… mostly. Anyway, how does it feel to be outside of your room?” Alarion didn’t response besides giving him a tiny frown. “That good, huh?”

Alarion’s mouth open, closed, then finally formed the word, “Cole.”

“Ah, you met the Kid? He’s an interesting one, I’ll give him that. I hope he wasn’t too much for a good first impression.”

Alarion shook his head now, face slowly becoming less blank with the movement. “He sang to me.”

“Really? Huh, I would’ve paid to see that. First time I met him, he appeared out of thin air and I nearly wet myself. But if you repeat that to anyone, I’ll deny it.”

To his relief, Alarion gave him a little smile now instead of the earlier frown. “I fell down when he surprised me.”

“He does that.” Varric gestured towards the bed. “You want to sit? Otherwise feel free to keep standing there.” Wordlessly, Alarion sat down on the bed. Varric turned his desk chair around to face him and seated himself down as well. “So, how did meeting Cole go?”

‘Don’t think. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about how Kid… don’t!’

“It… was okay. He scared me a little.”

“He’s like that with most people. You get used to him eventually. He’s actually a real sweet kid.”

Alarion squirmed a little in his seat. “I didn’t know you brought anyone else here.”

Deciding it would be best not to mention that Cole sort of found them and not the other way around, Varric shrugged. “It’s just the four of us here in this house. You, me, Sp – Dorian, and Cole.”

After looking up briefly at him, Alarion immediately broke eye contact and towards the wall instead. His mouth opened and closed, but eventually he stopped trying.

And Varric wanted to scream! He wanted to shake Alarion and order him to talk to him. To let Varric help him! That almost two weeks of this uneasy friendship was starting to wear thin not from lack of patience, but because he missed his friend! And he just wanted to be trusted enough to be asked questions he clearly _wanted_ to ask if he wasn’t so Maker-be-damned scared of him.

He could hear Hawke’s voice, _“I hope in that time you and him… um, re-talked? Became friends again? Some further shit that’s supposed to sound comforting?”_

Maker, he wished. But Alarion was understandably still scared. And showing that Varric was upset by his inaction would not help his case of ‘we’re friends and I’m here for you’.

So instead Varric grinned at him gently. “If you feel uneasy talking here, we can go back to your room.

“No!” Alarion said quickly, but then immediately turned red and looked away. The way he gritted his teeth meant he expected Varric would slap him for this insubordination.

Maker, but did this elf make Varric feel guilty for thinking a single negative thing about how hard it was to around him.

“No problem, Alarion.” Varric said smoothly, not skipping a beat. “Whatever you prefer.”

Alarion nodded slowly, looking at Varric in relief. He gulped, before pointing to the pocket that held Hawke’s message. “Was that a letter?”

“Yup, from The Champion of Kirkwall herself.” Despite his smile, Varric felt unease. It troubled him that Alarion had heard of Hawke instead of remembering her. If that nug-humping bas _tard_ Irian had talked about Hawke, it probably meant nothing good. It _probably_ meant Hawke and Broody’s killing of those slavers wasn’t exactly unnoticed by Tevinter. And Varric wouldn’t put it past that ass to be planning something bad involving Hawke. _Lots_ of people planned bad things about Hawke.

Just one more reason for Varric to want that bastard dead. In fact, he pretty much made it to the top of the ‘Deserve to be Dead List’ _before_ he threated Hawke.

It was a long list too.

Alarion, who had been listening to Hawke’s tale for almost two weeks now, perked up at that. “She wrote to you?”

“I wrote to her, actually.” Varric shrugged before patting letter in his pocket. “This is just her reply.”

“I… I see.” Alarion shifted his weight.

Should he push? “You look worried, Alarion.”

The elf looked up sharply. “I’m sorry! I-I didn’t mean–”

“Easy, elf.” Varric raised his hands, inwardly cursing. “I was just curious what was on your mind. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I-I was just,” He went bright red and looked away.

Change of subject then. Well, there was something he wanted Alarion to prepare for. “I actually was coming to talk to you soon.”

“You… were?”

“I’m actually waiting on some final good news from an old friend of mine. Turns out if you cash in a few owed favors, you can get your friend to come to Tevinter with her ship. Anyway, how would you feel about leaving Tevinter? We won’t be leaving right away, but soon enough.” When Alarion only shifted his weight looking at the floor, Varric prompted again. “Well, thoughts?”

To his surprise, Alarion looked up and stare at him straight into the eye, unwavering. “Dorian took me from my master. Does what I have to say change the fact you’ll take me?”

Varric watched him for a moment, shocked at the sudden confidence that he had not seen in the elf in the 13 days he had spent trying to befriend him again. Was this coming forward because of what the Kid did? Either way, _there_ was the Inquisitor Varric had mourned for three months. _Here_ was his friend he missed terribly.

He sighed, having to look away before his thoughts went sappy or sad, whichever was worse. “I know it may not seem like it, but everything we do, we do it for you.”

“That can’t be true!” He snapped. Varric looked up just in time to see the elf fold his arms, a few angry tears sliding down his face. “You don’t even know me! I’m just some random, nobody, slave.”

Varric shook his head slowly. He heard the words slip past his mouth, echoing a memory from what felt and seemed like so long ago. “You’re a good friend, Glowy. There’s a lot I’m willing to do for a good friend.”

For a while, Alarion didn’t reply. Eventually, he just shook his head and they both left it at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's short! But the next one is going to be longer, I promise!
> 
> By the way, Beth is Hawke and Fenris' daughter. She around one year old in this and is my headcanon on why Fenris didn't follow Hawke to Skyhold anyway.
> 
> FenarielTheDalishMage was my awesome beta :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

Varric had offered to meet up at the table for lunch. At first, Alarion had wanted to refuse. They should eat and talk in either Varric’s room or his own. It was more comfortable and familiar. But he couldn’t bring himself to voice his discomfort and just quietly agreed to meet Varric on the table.

So he was – swinging his feet and staring at the doorway in front of him. From his exploring, he knew that that particular doorway led into the kitchen area where there was a second table, two chairs, a small icebox and a pantry full of food. Behind him was the door that led to Varric’s room. It was currently closed so he could have some privacy as he wrote and read letters (not that Alarion had a single hope to understand those scribbles people called words). From his viewpoint, he could see the short, small hallway that led to his room. To his right, across from his room, was the door that led to the outside, and, next to that, the door that led to Dorian’s room. Alarion also knew that there was a tub somewhere on that side of the house, but he hadn’t been brave enough to go near that area.

He liked Varric. There was just something so pleasing about being in his company. Cole, he wasn’t sure about. The kid was sweet, but also terrifying. A part of Alarion even wondered if the boy was human. But Dorian? He… just the idea of that man made Alarion want to shake. It wasn’t just the fact that he had abducted him. It wasn’t even the memory of Dorian shooting him full of lightning. Both those things made Alarion scared, sure; but what petrified him was the unknown. Both Varric and Cole had expressed a strong disinterested and even disgust over the idea of hurting him. And, so far, they have given him no reason to believe the opposite. Varric was always ready with a smile and a great story. Cole would show up out of nowhere, whispering words of comfort and sneaking Alarion pieces of fruit. They were friendly, nice, and considerate. They seemed to truly care about how Alarion was feeling and what he was saying. He knew nothing about Dorian than the lies he would spout and the way he violently took him from his life with his master.

Alarion frowned, folding his arms across his chest. There were so many things he wanted to know about Dorian, his abductor. Most of them stemmed from the single question of: why? Why did he take him? Why did he bring him here? Why had he tried so hard to talk to a lowly slave? What did he want?

He had come close to asking Varric a few times, but the words always seemed to die in his mouth.

Maybe… Maybe he’d ask during this lunch. Get a little information on what was happening and why it was happening. It couldn’t hurt. Besides, Varric always encouraged his questions.

Just as he nodded to his own thoughts, his body jerked into a jump as the noise of someone clearing their throat sounded through the room. He looked to his right to see none other than the madman himself. His eyes were soft, but his face hard as he removed the fist from his mouth where he had undoubtedly coughed into. “Do you mind if I sit? Otherwise I’ll leave.”

Alarion’s entire body screamed no. It seemed as though every fiber of his being wanted Dorian to leave. But a part of him hesitated. Taking a moment, Alarion allowed his eyes to scan across Dorian’s face, looking for every detail he could find. Though his face was carefully blank, his eyes spoke volumes. They were feverish and over-bright and almost wet as they darted across his face. There was pain in his stare that only spoke of desperation.

He felt a gulp before he realized he took one. Dorian wasn’t asking to sit with him; he was _pleading_.

Alarion’s mind began to reel. Dorian had always seemed like this strange and violent anomaly. Something to always be afraid of. _Someone_ to be terrified of. The unknown motive. The hidden dagger. The strike waiting to happen.

So why did he look so desperate? Why was he holding himself so tightly? Why was his jaw so clenched? Why did he seem to be so close to tears?

And _why_ did this man create nothing but questions in Alarion’s mind?

Would he be willing to answer them? Would Alarion want to hear them?

What were his options? He could tell him ‘no’. If Dorian wouldn’t be willing to comply, then why did he ask in the first place? He could have easily stormed in and sat down next to him.

Or grabbed him. Hold him down. Tie him up and beat and break him. Alarion would be too weak to fight back. And, if he wasn’t, there was always magic.

The said mage was holding his breath, and didn’t seem to even be realizing he was. His eyes were shinier now that Alarion hadn’t immediately sent him away as he had always done before.

And there! Alarion saw it. The corner of his lips twitched up, barely noticeable at all even with Alarion studying his face with scrutiny.

There was such a cautioned hope in his gaze.

Taking a moment to regulate his breathing, Alarion nodded once. “If you promise not to hurt me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Dorian gave him a brief smile, eyes nearly shimmering with relief. The mage walked away from Alarion, sitting himself on the furthest seat from him, across the table. “Thank you.” Dorian said simply. Alarion nodded, not sure how to respond. Dorian watched him curiously for a moment before gently asking, “Something on your mind?”

Alarion nodded again. He wanted to talk, wanted to ask… he just couldn’t figure out how to say it; how to make his mouth move. To his surprise and relief, Dorian waited through his silence. It was his patience that allowed Alarion to find his voice. “Why did you take me?”

Dorian let out a sigh, looking away for only a moment before turning back with such a tiny hesitant smile. “I’m not sure how much you’ll believe, but I will tell you the truth. 8 months ago, I said goodbye to you. We sent letters back and forth to each other for a few months, but then you stopped writing me back. When I didn’t hear from you, I assumed the worst. I started to book passage back to where you were last, when an old friend showed up. She told me that you had sacrificed yourself to save a group of young elves. When they finally tracked down the party of slavers that took you, they found them all slaughtered. It was assumed you died along with them. I believed you to be dead until I saw you in that crowd at the market. When you didn’t recognize me, I panicked.” He waved a hand about, gesturing. “And here we are. I have no clue as to why don’t remember me or yourself, but I’d like to help if you’d let me. If you don’t want me even near you, though, I’d understand.”

Alarion spent a good few minutes digesting this new information. It paralleled perfectly on Dorian’s initial reaction to seeing him in the market as well as his pleading words the few times he had come to visit or when Alarion first woke up.

But could it be true? Could it be true at all? If it was true, then his master had been lying to him this entire time! The thought felt like worms in his stomach. If he had been lying, then all those days, weeks, and months of following orders, enduring torture for disobeying, and following master’s every whim would’ve been for nothing! No, worse than nothing. Master would’ve done it on purpose, knowing full and well Alarion wasn’t a slave.

And if it was false?

Then Dorian had truly grabbed him for some unknown evil purpose. Cole, and even Varric, were in on it. They wanted him for some terrible endgame plan. He had been taken and there was no hope of him returning to his old life.

Alarion squirmed in his seat. No matter which way he looked at it, he couldn’t decide which he wished was the lie and which was the truth.

While he tried to decide, he looked back up at Dorian. The man was watching him carefully. “How did you recognize me in a crowd?” The ‘I was an invisible slave’ part didn’t move past his lips.

The _altus_ chuckled. “Alarion, I’d spot you in a crowd any day. But I’ll admit that you did have me question it when you failed to recognize me back. But since you’re the only one in all of Thedas with that mark upon your hand,” he pointed to Alarion’s left hand. Though his eyes stayed on Dorian, he did see it flash green out of his peripheral vision. “I knew it was you without a doubt in my mind.”

Alarion gulped, glancing down at it now. It was quiet and not pulsing at the moment. “What _is_ it?”

“It’s called the ‘Anchor’.” Dorian folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Pure Fade Energy. It’s a magic born from ancient elven magic and an experiment gone wrong.” He flashed Alarion a dazzling smile. “The first in a long string of horrid luck for you.”

“Oh.” Alarion glanced away, looking back at Dorian. “I see.” Then he frowned. “What do you mean ‘ancient elven magic’?”

Dorian titled his head. “I don’t understand exactly what you are asking. Care to elaborate?”

Alarion gulped, gaining a little confidence as he did so. “The only elves I’ve ever seen…”

“Oh, I see. Well, a long, long time ago, elves were an immortal race that ruled Thedas… Until the humans of the Tevinter Imperium came and took over, that is. Many elves were killed in the war, some escaped, and the remaining became slaves for Tevinter. I am talking long ago. Hundreds upon hundreds of years ago.” When he saw Alarion’s look of horror he shook his head slowly. “Many details have been lost in time, but that’s the general consensus on it. I can always tell you the full historical story if you would like, but at a later date.”

Alarion shook his head. History or not, he didn’t want to hear about a war. He looked up again to see Dorian, once more, watching him carefully. “Y-you say you knew me before I lost my memories.”

“I did.”

“Do you have a way to…?”

Dorian chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “A way to prove it? How exactly could I go about that? I have all the letters you sent me, but there’s no way to prove that you were the one that wrote them. I could perhaps show you an old painting of yourself? But there’s no way for me to prove to you that the painting was old enough and not quickly painted on the spot to try and convince you. The only way I could see convincing you would to take you before thousands of people that would recognize you on the spot just as I did.”

Alarion frowned, mind racing. “Varric.”

“And Cole as well.” Dorian nodded in approval. “Both old friends of ours.”

His heart leaped against his chest. Breathing quickly, he raised two hands to his temples and began to shake his head. “This doesn’t make any sense!”

“Doesn’t it?” Dorian raised a single brow. “You don’t remember anything of your past. All you’ve known was that you served a Magister in a country whose language you don’t even speak?”

“B-But…” Alarion frowned. That was true. He didn’t speak any Tevene.

“I’m not trying to push you, Alarion.” Dorian’s voice, in an instant, turned soft and concerned. “I just felt you deserved to know the truth.” He sighed softly, looking at Alarion with concern over every inch of his face. “I just have one question for you, if you’ll indulge me.”

“Wh-what?”

He prepared for the question ‘do you remember me’ or something else of the sort. Instead, Dorian gave him a slight frown. “How have you been sleeping? You always got terrible nightmares.”

The question had Alarion on his feet in moments, staring at Dorian with wide eyes. “H-have you been having people spy on me while I’ve slept?”

Dorian had already begun to shake his head through his question. “No, _amatus_. I would never do that to you. I was just worried and wanted to know.”

“I…” he looked away, hesitating. “I have had more sleepless nights than not.”

“Just as I had thought.” Dorian arose with a loud sigh. “There’s a tea I can brew that can help you if you’d be willing to drink it?”

“Uh… Um…”

“I’ll brew a cup tonight.” Dorian said quickly. “If you don’t want to drink it, you don’t have to. And I’ll brew one for myself as well if to just prove that it does no harm.”

When Alarion gulped, not sure how to respond, Dorian saved him the trouble. “Don’t think you have to answer. Again, if you don’t want to drink it, you don’t have to.” Then, the mage sighed before giving him the tiniest of a smile, lips barely curling. When he spoke, however, his voice sounded so grateful. “Thank you, by the way. For letting me talk to you.”

And without waiting for a reply Alarion couldn’t give, Dorian turned slowly and headed towards the kitchen. As soon as he began to walk away, Alarion all but bounded in the opposite direction. His knocking was weak, given how badly he was trembling, but Varric’s voice welcomed him in anyway.

Upon entering, Varric didn’t glance up at him from his desk where he was writing. “Hey there, Alarion. I’ll be done in – you okay?”

There was so much shocked concern in his voice from the moment he laid eyes on Alarion that he realized he was probably shaking worse than he had originally thought. When Varric approached, one arm reaching out as if to touch his arm, Alarion flinched, and folded his arms across his chest. Immediately, Varric’s hand retreated. Instead, he simply titled his head. “Alright. Tell Uncle Varric what’s wrong.”

The joke did help lighten his spirits, but Alarion still had a hard time speaking up. After a long time, he finally managed out a, “Varric? H-how did we meet?”

Varric hesitated, looking unsure before giving a small chuckle. “Sparkler babbled, did he? Well, at least you two finally talked.” He paused long enough to shift his weight into a more comfortable stance. “You remember that story I told you, not long back, about an elf I met while I was ass-deep in demons? You, well, are that elf.”

It took a while, but Alarion found his voice again. “And that’s why you called me an old friend. That’s why you’re trying so hard to help me. Because you once knew me.”

“‘Once knew you’?” Varric parroted, rising a single brow while smiling. “I still know you, Glowy. But you’re right. That is why I have been trying so hard. There’s a lot more I’d be willing to do for you than just be patient enough to help you get through this.”

But… but then!

His breathing became so heavy that it hurt to gasp. Alarion brought up his hands to cover his eyes as he shut them. Maker! If… if…

A hand reached out, gently grasping his arm. Immediately, Alarion flinched and gritted his teeth as he got ready for the slap that would follow. “It’s alright, Alarion.” Varric voice came softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’d never hurt you.”

And, as Varric gently led him towards the bed to sit down on, Alarion believed him. Varric had never once showed him even an ounce of hostility towards him. Never had his touch or actions shown anything other than kindness. Alarion truly believed in his heart that Varric meant him no harm.

Cole, despite his oddness, also seemed very genuine in his desire to help. If fact, when Alarion had fallen right after he saw him for the first time, Cole had seemed so frantically worried and concerned for his wellbeing. The lad, for all his almost creepy nature, was extremely transparent with his feelings.

Which left Dorian. Dorian, who had seemed so blasted overjoyed and stunned that Alarion was alive. The same one that begged at him to remember who he was the first time he woke up. The way his eyes watered when he had first tried to visit and Alarion had refused him. With such a kind simple gesture of them simply sharing some apples… and Alarion had sent him away. Who had nearly begged to sit with him and had calmly answered all of Alarion’s questions. He had seemed so concerned as he asked how Alarion had been sleeping. Somehow knowing (and worried) that Alarion almost always had nightmares.

Dorian had been the only one that had ever caused Alarion any intentional harm. _“Forgive me,_ amatus _.”_ just before the pain came. Eyes filled with sorrow as he whispered it. _“Forgive me,_ amatus _.”_

_“_ Amatus _! You’re alive!”_

_“I’m not going to hurt you! Just talk to me! Tell me who you are.”_

_“J-just a slave. I’m just a slave.”_

_“No, you’re not! Who am I? You know who I am!”_

_“Glowy, we’re here to help.”_

_“Please don’t be afraid! I’ll keep my distance! I promise.”_

_“You’re not a slave, Alarion, especially not mine.”_

_“I realize that you don’t remember who I am. And-and I know your first impression of me wasn’t exactly ideal. So, can we please start over? We were really close, once.”_

_“I’m Varric Tethras. Pleased to meet you.”_

_“Would you like to hear a story?”_

_“Thanks for the story, Glowy.”_

_“I’d be happy to teach you how to read, Alarion; if you ever want me to.”_

_“A-are you going to kill me?”_

_“What? No! Alarion, I would never,_ ever _want any pain to happen to you. Andraste’s tits. Never. You hear me? I would never, I promise.”_

_“Please, don’t be afraid. I was hoping we could share these apples together?”_

_“Breath, Alarion. You know I’m here to help.”_

_“My name is Cole. I want to help.”_

_“You’re a good friend, Glowy. There’s a lot I’m willing to do for a good friend.”_

_“I have no clue as to why don’t remember me or yourself, but I’d like to help if you’d let me. If you don’t want me even near you, though, I’d understand.”_

_“I knew it was you without a doubt in my mind.”_

_“That doesn’t make any sense!”_

_“Doesn’t it? You don’t remember anything of your past.”_

_“I’m not trying to push you, Alarion. I just felt you deserved the truth.”_

_“I would never do that to you. I was just worried and wanted to know.”_

_“Thank you, by the way. For letting me talk to you.”_

_“But you’re right. That is why I have been trying so hard. There’s a lot more I’d be willing to do for you than just be patient enough to help you get through this.”_

_“It’s alright, Alarion. I’m not going to hurt you. I’d never hurt you.”_

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Alarion mumbled. “I-I think I believe you.”

There was only a pause before Varric, voice so hopeful said, “Really? _Heh_ , that’s great!”

Great? Maker, this wasn’t great. This meant that all that time, Alarion _had_ been someone, not nothing. Which meant… which meant….

Unable to stop himself, Alarion let out a choked cry, before rising both wrists to press against his eyes. That didn’t stop the tears, however, as a larger sob shook him that he silenced with all his will. He felt Varric sit on the bed next to him. And, stiffly, clumsily, gave Alarion an unsure pat on the back. “Err, look, I’m no good doing the whole – comforting people thing. But, feel free to let it _all_ out. No rush, kid.”

That’s right. This was Varric and not master or Anaka or another slave. This was _Varric_! That meant he wouldn’t be hit across the face for showing weakness. That he was allowed to actually open his mouth and fully cry without fear of being punished.

So he did just that. He let himself sob in a way he had never let himself before. Tears, yes. Crying, yes. But wailing? Fully letting himself go without worry of being hurt for it? This feeling. It had a name. Though Alarion had never experienced it in memory, his mind gave him a word. _Safety_.

And so Alarion began to sob freely. Because as safe as he felt, it couldn’t compare to the feeling of utter _agony_ that was wrecking his soul. Because suddenly it had no meaning.

Every slap, every punch, every kick was suddenly meaningless. Every lightning bolt, flame, shot of ice? Pointless. Every time he had suffered, he knew it was to teach him a lesson. Learn to be quieter. Learn to be more careful. Learn to know his place.

His anguish had a reason. His misery had meaning.

But now, it meant nothing. He wasn’t a slave that needed to be put down. He was a person. He was Alarion. And Alarion had friends. Friends that truly cared about him!

Maker, if that didn’t hurt. It hurt so badly to know that all along, he hadn’t needed to suffer at the hands of some magister that took him from his friends. That his pain had had no meaning or reason. That it all had been cruel and pointless.

“W-why?” Alarion whimpered out.

Why would Master do this? If Alarion was in fact the only one in the world with a green mark on his hand, then master knew that he wasn’t some slave. Then why did he keep Alarion away from those that cared about him? Why had he insisted in hurting Alarion at ever chance?

Why had Alarion forgotten who he was to begin with? Why had he been separated from people that cared about him?

Why did this happen?

“There are bad people in this world, Glowy.” Varric said softly. The whole time, he had yet to stop his awkward back patting. “Plenty of bad people who do bad things.”

“L-like m-m-master?” Alarion blubbered.

“Yes, like him.” Varric gave a small sigh. “But there are good people too. People who want to help others simply because it’s the right thing to do. People like you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, this chapter was saved on my computer as 'They FINALLY Talk'. I've been waiting for this chapter too. LOL
> 
> Alright, ready for learning something I consider canon? Inquisitors get bad nightmares. Hear me out.  
> So let’s pretend the constant killing and pressure that would affect a normal person doesn’t affect them because protagonist? Okay, even ignoring that let’s acknowledge some things we know to be canon?  
> 1) The avaar tell you that spirits and demons always know where you are because of the anchor. ‘Like fire’.  
> 2) Solas meets you in the Fade and talks to you, even if you’re a non-mage or even a dwarf! If the mark lets a Dwarf dream and a non-mage be lucid.  
> So, correct me if there’s something in canon to prove me wrong, but here’s what I think.  
> Dwarfs don’t dream. Non-mages dream like most real life non-lucid dreamers do. To a normal everyday mage, demons and spirits can sense them, but if you don’t draw too much attention to yourself by changing a ton you should be fine. Example: you’re dreaming you’re at a pool with a drink in your hand. You change it from orange juice to an ale and decide to go swimming or just sit and drink. They know they’re dreaming, but changing too much will attract demons.  
> But then there’s dreamers like Solas or Feynriel. They can, using the same example as before, decide to instead walk across the water instead of swim, jump into the air, and fly. They have easy control over their dreams and have, while it can be initially dangerous (Feynriel), these people have such control over their dreams that they don’t fear demons and spirits.  
> So here’s where nightmares come in.  
> A non-mage like Alarion would suddenly, inexplicable, be able to dream like a mage can and all the dangers that comes with it. He doesn’t always realize he’s dreaming, but he’s shaping his dream without realizing. And his mark attracts demons from all over. Even more than the average mage given both how famous he is, how many people think about him, but also because his mark is like a flare to the Fade. And he’s had no training to prevent demon possession, being a non-mage after all.  
> Mix that in with what a bleeding heart that blames himself every time he doesn’t save someone… and you have a terrible mix to get nightmare after nightmare nearly every night. And since no one really knows what the mark is and can do, most people wouldn’t even realize what was happening and offer him a little guidance about how to dream more like a mage.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. And thanks to FenarielTheDalishMage for being my beta


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to my story "Just Not Yet". You don't have to read it to understand this, but it does go into more detail.

“Dorian, I think you should talk to Alarion.”

Dorian, who had only been pretending to read, gave out an exasperated sigh as if he was being interrupted. Leaning back in his wooden chair, he casted his gaze towards the lad. “Now why in the Maker’s name would you think it’d be a good idea for _me_ to talk to him?”

Cole fidgeted, likely disliking the scrutiny of Dorian’s glare. “He doesn’t want to see Varric. I think you should talk to him.”

Dorian paused only for a moment. “I’d make it worse, Cole.”

“Maybe.”

Dorian gave a real noise of exasperation now. “Does he even _want_ to see me?”

The spirit paused. His legs, that were swinging from where he was sitting on the edge of the table, stopped as well. “No.”

“Then _why_ do you think it’s a good idea to go and talk to him?”

“Because he needs to eat.” Dorian saw Cole’s frown before his head dipped lower, hat obscuring his view. “He has barely eaten anything since breakfast two days ago.”

Dorian sighed, narrowly repressing the urge to bury his face into his hands. “That is my fault, Cole. I shouldn’t have pushed him.”

“No. He listened. He doesn’t remember, but his mind is making shapes to your words. It makes sense now. But that makes it senseless. That’s why he’s upset. Not because you told him, but what the words _mean_.”

“Right,” Dorian sighed, finally giving into the temptation and rubbing his face. “I made it worse, Cole. I should’ve listen to Varric and not dumped it on him.”

Cole shook his head, now letting his legs kick again. “He believed you, Dorian.”

“Yes, that is what Varric told me. But that is also why he isn’t eating.”

Cole, mercifully, fell silent. Dorian open his book again, even if he knew his mind wasn’t settled enough to actually read. A few minutes ticked up before Cole spoke again. “I still think you should go talk to him.”

“Varric’s talking to him. He likes Varric. Drop it, Cole.”

“But _you_ should talk to him.”

“Cole, for the last time, _why_ do you think _I_ should talk to him? He doesn’t want to talk to me _and_ you admitted I might make it worse! So why is it a good idea?”

Cole looked over in Dorian’s direction, but his eyes were hidden in the shadows casted by his hat. “I didn’t say it was a good idea. Just that I think you should.”

“Cole.” Dorian warned.

The boy looked down at his fidgeting hands. “Madness speaking truth. Face of kindness with smiles. Soft soothing words. Words that make things senseless. Madness that burns the tongue with kindness and soothing words.” He looked in Dorian’s direction again. “He doesn’t want to see to see any of us. You could help better than me or Varric.”

“Really? The Spirit of Compassion is saying _I_ can help more than him?”

“I’m more human now.” Cole replied. “I can remember better, but I can hear less. Alarion doesn’t remember you, but your voice can penetrate through the brilliance clouding his mind. And he’s… scared of me.”

At once, Dorian found himself sighing again. “He’ll come around Cole. He just doesn’t know you yet. He will.”

Cole gave a small jump at these words. “Why do you think he’d like me but not like you?”

Moaning, Dorian buried his face into his hands for the second time. “Why do we always end up discussing me, Cole?” He glanced out of his hands for an answer, only to find the table missing a certain perched boy. “Great, now I’m talking to myself.”

Shaking his head, Dorian attempted to turn back to his book, but the words made his head hurt. He slammed it closed before leaning back into his chair. Slowly, he shut his eyes and, with little else to do, tried to understand Cole’s words.

It makes sense so therefore it’s senseless? That made just as much _sense_ as the _senseless_ things Cole normally said.

As he pondered, he heard the door from Varric’s room open and he looked over in time to see a tired looking Varric emerge. Wordlessly, Dorian rose and followed Varric into the kitchen where their whispers would not be overheard.

“Let me answer you before you even ask. He’s not doing too well. I barely got him to drink some water, let alone talk to me. Doesn’t matter what I did or said. I tried telling stories, I tried asking questions… no response.” He chuckled, for a moment, looking away. “I’m pretty sure at this point that no elf can escape Tevinter without at least a little brooding. And the more they glow, the more they brood.”

Dorian let out yet another sigh, silently commenting to himself that he was becoming very dramatic in the last few days. Leaning against the kitchen wall, he said, “You can come right out and say it, Varric; I shouldn’t have told him.”

Varric let out a short groan before saying, “Actually, I was going to say the opposite. I think it was a good idea to tell him. I think he was more ready than I was giving him credit for.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dorian agreed, voice dipping in sarcasm. “That _must_ be why we’re here discussing the best way we can get him to eat.”

“I doubt finding out that you had an entire life torn from you would be easy to handle at any point in time, Sparkler.”

Before Dorian could reply, a voice behind him said, “That’s not why he is hurting.”

The last few days of being in close non-stop quarters with Cole had stopped Dorian from jumping whenever his voice would appear out of nowhere. “Care to enlighten us Cole?”

“The light is the _problem_.” Cole stressed. Dorian turned to see the boy standing in the corner of the room, desperate wringing his hands together. “But I can’t take it. If I could, I would.”

“You were saying something about Glowy, Kid? Something about him hurting?”

“What? Oh. Sorry. Yes. Alarion is hurting because the hurt has no meaning anymore. It makes me sad. The hurt has nowhere to go expect to anger. And then the anger would have nowhere to go. I can’t fix this. Alarion doesn’t understand. Because the hurt is never good. The hurt can’t enlighten. But Alarion can’t hear that through the light. That’s why he’s hurting. That’s why he’s scared.”

Dorian shook his head before turning away. “Not sure why I expected a more straight forward answer.”

After there was silence for a while, Varric shook his head before looking more squarely at Cole. “Alarion aside, how you holding up, Kid? You doing alright?”

“Strange boy, but okay. Not scared of him nor he of me. Fickle like a cat. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.” Cole bowed his head.

“Doing alright?” Varric promoted again.

“Doesn’t move right. Eyes not blinking when they should. Friend or foe? Don’t hurt me.” For a moment, he didn’t move or speak before he glanced up at Varric. “Alarion didn’t remember me at first. Not until we talked after Haven. He didn’t understand who I was, but he wasn’t afraid of me. Now, he’s is. Every time he looks at me, he feels frightened.”

“I’m sure he’ll come around, Kid.”

“Who is he? _What_ is he? Wish he would stay away.” Cole looked down at his hands again. “He’s not so scared of me now, but he still doesn’t like to see me. I-I wish I could make him not see me. Then I could help more. I’m too real. If I wasn’t real, then I could help more. B-but this is how Alarion wanted me to be.” He looked up now. “Do you think he’d still have wanted this even if he knew it meant I couldn’t help him?”

Dorian was speaking before Varric had a chance to respond. “Alarion would have wanted what was best for you even if it meant it wasn’t what was best for him. You know that as well as I do.”

“Yes,” Cole replied, voice getting quieter. “Yes, that’s what he would’ve wanted. Alarion… Alarion liked to help us, didn’t he? He wanted to help everyone he could, and even those he couldn’t. But he really wanted to help us. In his mind, we were clan, _family_. He liked to help because he wanted to. But he wanted to more because he loved us. He doesn’t love us anymore, so we need to help him instead.”

Hoping Varric wouldn’t notice his blushing Dorian quickly coughed into his hand.

Cole fidgeted, before looking straight to Dorian. “Dorian, I think you should go talk to him. It’s the best way to help.”

“Not this again, Cole.”

“Again? What am I missing?”

“I think Dorian should try to talk to Alarion. I think it can help. Dorian doesn’t want to. He thinks it will make it worse.”

“Worse than not eating?”

“Varric.” Low, warning. _‘Don’t push this, dwarf. I’ll just make everything worse.’_

“I’m with the Kid on this one. What harm can come of you just talking to him?”

An alarming amount of fury began to blossom in his chest, dancing down his hands and face as he curled his fists and gritted his teeth. _“You never know until you try, Sparkler. I’ll be right outside the door if you need me. You’ll be fine!”_

“Too many feathers.” Cole echoed sadly.

Dorian attempted to relax his jaw at the same time uncurl his hands. “He doesn’t want to see me.”

“He doesn’t _want_ words.”

“ _I_ think it’s a good idea.”

No, it wasn’t. Every time Dorian had gotten near him, Alarion had panicked. The tears. His utter terror in his every movement. The one, the one fucking time he actually managed to have an actual conversation with his _amatus…_ and it led into him having a mental meltdown. The elf had refused to leave Varric’s room and hadn’t even moved from off the bed in was what was almost nearing three days.

And it wasn’t like Dorian didn’t want to see him. Well, he didn’t, actually. It was hard, beyond difficult, to see him hurting so with no way for Dorian to ease that pain.

But, even still, he felt himself constantly wanting to run into that room and just pull him into his arms. To see that beautiful face look at him and see recognition in his eyes for instead of fear.

There was very little he wouldn’t do to see that elf smile again.

Dorian sighed, shaking his head. “Neither of you are going to drop this, are you?”

“I want to help.”

“Ask the Seeker. I’m adorably insistent.”

Groaning far louder than he really needed to, Dorian ducked out of the kitchen. On his way towards Varric’s room he paused by the kitchen table. The book he had been pretending and trying on and off again to read was lying on the wood. On a whim, he grabbed it before making his way towards the room.

The door was left ajar and Dorian walked through without announcing himself. The glance towards the bed showed that Alarion’s eyes tracked his movement as he entered, but otherwise he showed no sign that he had even noticed Dorian was there.

After a moment of watching his face for any sign of fear, Dorian turned away and spotted the chair near the desk. Without a word, he sat down and opened his book. He truly wanted to read, but knew the words wouldn’t process any better now than before. Instead, he placed the book so that he could watch Alarion in the bed without being too painfully obvious. From there, he pretended to read so he had a clear view of the elf’s rising and sinking stomach.

The moment echoed that of one not so long ago. Back before Alarion was awake and Dorian had been making those dreadful knockout bombs to keep him that way. He remembered the months upon months ago Alarion’s smile as he showed Dorian how me made them. His nimble fingers as he created them. The look on his face turned overjoyed when Dorian asked if he would teach him how he did it.

Hours spent listening to his passionate and eager explaining of each ingredient and how exactly to go about concocting the bombs. His laughter that echoed across his… their room when he told him that the first time Heir taught him to make these, he had accidently inhaled some and knocked himself out. Came to hours later to Cole offering him water and Heir gone along with all the coin he had on him at the time.

Never had either of them would have guessed in that moment that one day Dorian would use that lesson to keep Alarion of all people unconscious.

Now was better than then. Because instead of his face blank and his body comatose if it were not for his rising chest, he could see Alarion’s eyes staring at him instead. Perhaps there no life in his gaze, but he was alive.

Wordlessly, Dorian turned a page and pretended he was engrossed with whatever he was reading.

Minutes later, Alarion spoke in a soft voice. “You’re not actually reading.”

Trying his damnedest not to react to the surprise that Alarion was speaking to him, Dorian merely glanced over the top of the book lazily. “Oh? Is that so?”’

From the bed, Alarion gently shook his head before quietly saying, “When you’re actually reading, you glare or nod at your book. I’ve seen you.”

Blinking a few times, Dorian attempted to come up with something witty, but finally asked, “When?”

Alarion didn’t reply. He looked away, staring blankly at the wall before slowly turning back to Dorian. “The day before we talked. I watched you reading at the table.”

“Truly? I didn’t see you there.”

Alarion nodded, likely suspecting as much. “I know how to be quiet.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

By inches, ever so slowly, Alarion’s face turned into a frown. “You… aren’t upset?”

“That you were watching me? Not at all. I’m a marvel. Feel free to keep staring.”

Alarion blink a few time at him, and his frown eventually faded into a careful blank face. Sensing he no longer wanted to talk, Dorian fell silent and returned to his book.

After a few minutes, Alarion spoke up again. “You’re not turning the pages now.” He whispered, barely audible.

“Ah. Why would I be so distracted, I wonder? Perhaps I’m hungry.” He gave a dramatic sigh, shutting the book. “I think I’m going to grab some fruit. I’m thinking… strawberries if I can find them. Perhaps a sandwich. Shall I get one for you while I’m out?”

Alarion simply shook his head. “I-I can’t eat.”

“Well then, I’m afraid I won’t either. A pity that. I was rather looking forward to that sandwich.” And when Alarion looked horrified but Dorian merely shrugged.

A long time later, the elf found his voice again. “Why?” He whispered, eyes wide from where they stared at him, half covered from the mattress.

“I can’t be half as hungry as you are. Seems only fair that I don’t eat until you do. It is, after all, my fault you’re so upset.”

To Dorian’s surprise, the elf glared at him. “Your fault?”

He sighed. “I should’ve have pushed you. I should’ve let Varric tell you gently like he had been planning.”

Alarion, eyes never leaving his face, shook his head slowly. “That’s not…”

Instead of continuing, tears began to run down his face. His glare dropped to instead be overtaken by a look of anguish.

It took all of Dorian’s self-control not to leap from his chair and wipe the tears away. “I am very sorry, Alarion.”

“Not you.” He whispered, eyes drawn in tight. “M-master…”

Dorian could see the elf struggling to say what he wanted. But that wasn’t unusual. Often times when Alarion had something important to say, he’d sit there for a while, attempting to find the right way to word it. Once, Alarion thanked him for always waiting through his silences, commenting that most people didn’t. And, yet, Dorian always did and never grew impatient with him. Alarion just wanted to say what was on his mind without anyone misinterpreting it. Dorian always understood and never minded waiting for the words to come as they always did. _“I love that about you,_ ma’arla. _”_

Maker, Dorian missed hearing that little word.

But, instead, Dorian tried to focus on the fact that at least this little trait had stayed the same, regardless of everything Alarion had been through. There was hope in that. Foolish, childlike, but hope none the less.

“I’m not nothing. I’m somebody.” He finally whispered.

“You are far more than somebody. You’re important.” Though he felt like a sap, he finished his thought. “You’re loved.”

“Exactly. There’s no meaning.” He shook his head. “There’s no meaning anymore.”

Dorian didn’t understand any more now than when Cole was saying something similar. So he didn’t respond to it. “Is there something I can do?”

Alarion shook his head, slowly. “But, thank you.”

“I’ll be here, pretending to read, if you want to talk.”

 

o.O.o

 

At least an hour later, at the minimum, Alarion spoke up. “The drawer,” He whispered. “In my room.”

“Hmm?”

“…The apples,”

“Apples?”

“From before.”

“Oh.” He kept them? Dorian felt his face flushed warm, and he desperately attempted to squash the giddy happiness that Alarion had kept something Dorian gave him.

“E-eat…”

Not needing anything more, Dorian nodded at him and stood up. “I’ll go grab those then.”

“Thank you.”

Hiding the smile from the elf, Dorian grinned happily to himself as he walked out the door. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw that Varric was sitting just outside the door. The dwarf winked at him and went back to reading his book.

Damn nosey bastard was listening the whole time.

Rolling his eyes, Dorian walked past him and entered Alarion’s to his left. When he entered, he thought to himself that perhaps Varric’s running gag that the room smelled terrible wasn’t too far from the truth. Trying to avoid looking at the yet-to-be-changed chamber pot, Dorian opened the drawer and, sure enough, found two small round apples waiting for him.

He had thought Alarion had either ate them or threw them out. There was not a moment where the idea that he kept them passed his mind.

Still sentimental then.

Smiling, Dorian grabbed them before going back into Varric’s room (and effectively ignoring the look the dwarf shot him). When he arrived, he offered one to the elf. Alarion stared at the fruit for a moment, before slowly sitting up. For a panicked moment, Dorian thought he’d refuse again and he’d be sent away.

Instead, the elf hesitantly took it from his extended hand.

Trying not to smile too broadly, Dorian motioned towards the other end of the bed. “May I sit? Or would you prefer me to go back to my uncomfortable chair?”

In response, Alarion scooted just a little to his left, giving Dorian an open invitation. “Thank you.”

As his weight dipped into the bed, Alarion looked over at him. The gaze was subtle, barely more than just a glance out of the corner of his eye. Yet, it was Alarion. And he was looking at Dorian again. Alarion was alive _and he wasn’t avoiding Dorian’s gaze_!

Wordlessly, Dorian smiled at him before taking a small bite of the fruit in his hands. The taste was sweet, juice dripping down his grin.

Slowly, Alarion turned to his, before taking a bite. Yet, as he slowly ate, he kept stealing glances at Dorian.

The silence was there, as it had predominantly been, but it didn’t feel forced or awkward. It was peaceful in its way.

At one point, when Alarion stopped hiding his looking, Dorian smirked and pointed to his nose. “It’s called a mustache, by the way. You used to get them confused with beards.”

Alarion stared, before offering up a quiet, “I had actually been wondering.”

Dorian threw back his head and laughed. “Predictable.”

After holding his gaze for a moment, Alarion looked down at his hands. “How did we meet?”

Dorian chuckled. “The short version of this story? I was in a Chantry waiting for you to show up when demons started to appear. I killed them, you sealed the Rift with your anchor, and I asked you for help with a little problem I had. I was terribly charming, too.”

“Did I make a good first impression?”

“You shot the demon coming near me into a pincushion? Then you made a joke about it all being a trap. I’d call that at least a decent first impression.”

He quickly looked away again. “Better than this time around, at least.”

“Please, Alarion. If we’re going to compare, I have the far worst of first impressions this time around.” Suddenly, instantly, there was a lump in Dorian’s throat and something had a vice grip on his heart. He could hardly breathe. He remembered feeling the elf’s scream against his hand. The agony that pinched his eyes. His small frail body crumbling. “Alarion, I am sorry. Maker, will you ever forgive me?”

In response, Alarion raised a slow hand to his mouth. When he didn’t respond, Dorian muster all his willpower not to run from the room. Finally, Alarion seemed done weighing his thoughts as he turned to Dorian and said, “You hugged me.”

“I… wait, what?”

“I had wondered how you even noticed me in the crowd when I was so invisible to so many people. And why were you, an _altus_ , hugging and noticing me?” He fidgeted, looking away now. “I’m not going to lie, I did think you’d hurt me. But my first thought was why would you even see me.”

Did, did he really think so? He had seemed so petrified. So scared. When Dorian had pulled him close his heart had _roared_ at the feeling of him in his arms again. He had been so relieved and so overjoyed that he could think of nothing else than the idea that Alarion was in his arms _alive_. It was only when he had tried to express his elevation did he even realize that he had mourned this man for no reason. Those months of anguish were for nothing.

_“Why didn’t you tell me you were alive?”_

If he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own head, he might’ve seen Alarion’s look of confusion, terror, or, at the very least, lack of recognition… maybe Dorian would’ve handled it better.

“I hadn’t wanted to hurt you.” Dorian whispered. “I’m so sorry I did.”

Alarion didn’t respond for a long time. Instead, he ate his apple. “You didn’t have a choice. I wouldn’t have believed you. And I wouldn’t have followed you.”

Dorian shook his head, looking away as well. “I hurt you. I have no excuse for that. All I have is a promise to never again lay a hand on you.” Feeling the rush of determination rising in his chest, Dorian curled fists and clenched his teeth. “Alarion, I’d give my life to save yours. I’ll do anything to keep you safe.”

Narrowly, he avoided pleading out the words, ‘ _Please believe me’_.

To his credit, the elf didn’t run from him anyway. Instead, he curled his knees to his chin and didn’t reply.

Which was fine by Dorian.

They finished eating their small fruit in silence.

Long after Dorian had returned to his chair and actually began to read, Alarion whispered, so quietly it was unlikely that Alarion thought he’d hear, “Thank you.”

Dorian hid his smile in his book.

 

o.O.o

 

A gentle hand shook his arm, causing Dorian to jump awake out of a lovely dream. He rubbed an eye, attempting to use the remaining one to focus on the face in front of him.

“Cole.”

The lad raised a finger to his lips and pointed towards the bed. Following it, and allowing time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, Dorian spotted the elf curled under the covers and…

A smile on his face. That same peaceful smile Dorian used to stare at while he waited for sleep to claim him too.

Heart bursting and aching at the same time, the mage felt a smile of his own appear on his face. Tender and fond all at once.

Cole gave him a moment before quietly gesturing Dorian out of the room. Nodding, he followed, but kept his eyes on Alarion’s face until he was out of sight.

It was the first smile he had seen Alarion give in over eight months.

He felt giddy. He wanted to scream out to the world that his _amatus_ was alive and smiling.

Instead, he just mused to himself as he followed Cole into his own room where Varric was, equipped with a board smug grin and a letter in hand.

“That worked out well, didn’t it?”

“You’re not taking credit for that.” Dorian rolled his eyes, but couldn’t muster the energy the hide his smile.

“Fine, but I will take credit for this.” He waved the letter about, looking far too smug. “How does going to Skyhold on an untraceable and undocked pirate ship sound to you?”

“Wait, what?”

“Sailing, sliding, sneaking.” Cole mumbled.

“I sent a few letters and I have a friend waiting just a little way over. Tomorrow morning, I send word and we’ll have a ship waiting in the docks come nightfall. The Kid and I knock out the guards, you sneak Glowy on, and next stop Skyhold.” Varric grin grew. “Go on, don’t hold back. You’re welcome to tell me how awesome I am.”

Dorian, to his surprise and Varric’s, nearly cried. “It’s perfect.” He murmured, turning his head in embarrassment. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FenarielTheDalishMage is the best there is :) He's awesome!
> 
> Also, Cole? You're an absolute angel. Know how you can help me? Make your dialogue easier to write.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Just wanted to throw it out there that my awesome beta can't overlook my work anymore because life happens and I need a new beta reader. If you're interested, let me know! You'll get chapters earlier and I'd be happy to beta something of yours if you want :)

Below his feet, the wood creaked as through the night as if it was going to give. Varric frowned, glad the night could hide how uneasy it made him feel. The last he wanted was for this dock to give way and he tumble into the waves below. Next to him, he heard a soft whisper.

“Crashing, pulling, taking and giving. I don’t want to fall in either. I don’t know if I can swim.”

Varric sighed, and whispered back, “I’d offer to teach you, but I don’t know how to.”

Cole paused, looking thoughtful. “Do you think Captain Isabela will teach me? She loves the sea.”

“We’ll probably be too busy, Kid. But you could ask.” Varric couldn’t help but frown a little. He wondered, quietly hoping Cole wouldn’t pick up on it, whether or not Isabela would be frightened by him. In any other situation, he’d scoff at the idea, but he remembered how hilarious it had been taking her back to his brother’s ‘haunted’ house. Cole was so ghost-like at times that even Cole himself thought he was a ghost for a bit there. Varric hoped that Cole was solid enough that he wouldn’t scare Isabela. For both their sakes.

“She’s excited to see you, Varric,” Cole whispered.

“Is she?”

“She used to hate it when you called her ‘Rivaini’. Now she misses the words upon your lips. The soft echo of your voice through a lonely cabin and the flowing sound of your stories. The lies upon lies told in protection, not in malcontent. And never at her, for her. Kind and almost paternal. Soft-hearted little man. Friend, even if the word scares her.”

“Yup, that’s her.”

“She’s scared of us, even if she doesn’t realize it. She thinks we’re all willing to give her up, but you. But we won’t.” Cole frowned and ran his hands together. “Do you think I can help with that? She doesn’t know me. I might scare her.”

Varric smiled fondly. “You really are learning.”

“Even though she trusted Hawke, she still worried she would be given up. Like Hari. But her merry little group of outcasts? People to have her back and her side, yet not her bed? Friendship confuses her.”

Varric chuckled, “Yup.”

“She’s coming.” Cole glanced up just as the tip of the ship came into view from behind the cliff.

Let’s see. Varric knew that the bow was the top of the ship, but he had no clue what to call that point-thing.

_‘The ship slide across the water, silent as the night around it. One wouldn’t even notice it was there if it wasn’t for the pointer-thing snaking into view from behind the rocks.’_

That’d work better if he actually knew the right jargon.

Nearly silently, the ship sailed closer until it was just a foot from the dock. A familiar face with a large hat atop her head was waiting, leaning over the railing. She smiled and winked at him before waving behind her. At once, a wood board lowered until it hit against the wooden dock.

Turning behind him, Varric waved as well and gave a low whistle. A pair of dark figures emerged from their hiding place. Now in a group, the four of them let Alarion go first as the rest walked on in single file behind him.

The moment Cole, who was the last one on, was standing firmly on the ship, a crewman next to him grabbed the board and they were off before Varric had a chance to get steady. Luckily, he didn’t fall, but he could say as much for his stomach that did a flip as they sneaked off into the night as if they were never there to begin with.

Isabela didn’t greet them. Instead, she stayed at the top with the… wheel-thing.

When he got back to Kirkwall, he was going to read a book about ships. This was starting to irritate him.

The crew and the four guests stayed quiet until the lights of the city were far behind him. Once it was, a cheerful voice said, “Varric, I’m going to get some form of ferry fee right?”

“Eh, instead, consider this the money you owe me.”

“I owed you two sovereigns! If you think dragging me away from the Pearl is worth two sovereigns, you have another thing coming.”

“She doesn’t mean it.” Cole said quietly, staring as Isabela walked down the steps towards them, sashaying hips swaying. “She was very happy when you wrote to her. She wanted to help.”

“Yeah, but don’t tell her that.” Varric chuckled.

“So, who are these sweet things?” Isabela purred, voice sultry.

Varric had to laugh harder this time. She’ll find herself disappoint trying to bed two men that swung for the other team or a former spirit. It’d be funny to watch, though.  “Rivaini, met Cole, Alarion, and Dorian. Kid, Glowy, Sparkler, meet Captain Isabela.”

“ _Admiral_ Captain Isabela.” She grinned at them, her white teeth dancing in the dark. “Welcome to the Siren’s Call II, boys. Any friend of Varric’s…” She paused dramatically before finishing with, “owes me money too.”

When Varric saw Alarion’s face flash fear, he started to laugh harder. “Don’t listen to her, Glowy. She’s just upset that I cashed in the favors she owes me.”

“Consider us even, then.” Isabela purred. “Well, would you three like a tour? This ship deserves to be shown off.”

“That sounds lovely,” Dorian said, smoothly. “And may I say it is a pleasure to meet one of Varric’s friends? I have heard so much about you.”

“Charming this one.” She winked at him. “Perhaps you’d like a personal tour of my cabin?”

“Oh. That is–”

She laughed, cutting him off. “Easy, sweet thing. Varric talks about you too. He’s a right down gossiper. And that’s coming from me. Speaking of talking, heard from Hawke?”

“She sends her love. With tongue.”

“Charmer, that one too.” She laughed, before waving them on. “Come one then. Varric, you can head up to the helm. I’ll meet you there when we’re all nice and done.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively at ‘done’, before heading off with the three in tow.

Laughing, Varric walked up the steps where Brand was steering the ship. The first mate glanced over at him, blond hair shimmering in the moonlight. “Good to see you again, dwarf. It’s always a pleasure to see the captain lose at cards every once and a while.”

He chuckled at that, before heading over to the railing. He leaned against it, letting the wind whip at him as he watched the light in the distance grow smaller.

Maker willing that will be the last time he has to go to Tevinter.

Closing his eyes, he let the sea air smell wash over his senses. For just a moment, he felt like he was down at the docks in Kirkwall. Running around on some errand with Hawke. Fish smell, sea salt, body odor… All it lacked was an overabundance of people pushing each other.

“Varric?”

Surprised, Varric turned around to spot Cole standing behind him. “I thought you were getting a tour, Kid.”

He shook his head, hat flying. “There’s something I need to ask.”

“Another question?”

“No. A favor.” He looked up, eyes wide with fear. “Don’t let Captain Isabela find out Alarion is as much purple as he is green. It’d make her scared and upset.”

Suddenly, his voice grew soft, almost as if it was far away. “Hand on the back of my head. _‘What is your name?’_ A rose is still a rose. _‘Then let all your names be erased.’_   Purple clawing at the ground. Knifepoint away from the head. I must stay me. Can’t chain choice.”

Then, without another word, Cole turned and walked away.

 

o.O.o

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you make weird friends?”

Varric laughed, “This coming from one of my friends?”

“Ever heard this joke? A demon-boy, a magister, and the Inquisitor all board a pirate ship. And the dwarf says, ‘what, they’re just as weird as you’.”

“Let’s do a count, shall we? I’m friends with you, a pirate, a broody lyrium elf, a Dalish bloodmage, the Captain of the Guard, and Hawke (who can’t even fit into a category). Is me befriending the Kid, the Inquisitor, or even a Tevinter mage that usual? They seem to fit in perfectly into our little outcast group if you ask me.”

Isabela laughed. “The strangest thing about that list? I’m probably the least unusual out of them. Something’s wrong with you personally if the Queen of the Eastern Seas is your most normal friend.”

“Aveline has you beat in the normal factor, Rivaini.”

“Brodish Man Hands? Please. Nothing about her is natural.”

“Heard from her lately?”

“No. I thought you were in charge of the whole letter thing.”

Varric snorted. “I sort of ran away in the middle of the night without telling anyone. I figured she’d read the note I left for when she inevitably decided to ransack my office looking for me.”

Isabela laughed yet again. The noise clear across the ship even with the slaps of the sea below and the gulls crying above. “Oh, she’s going to hit you when she sees you.”

“Probably. Think I’ll survive?”

“No. But I’ll visit your funeral. So, nothing to worry about!”

“I feel better already.”

The two watched the ever expanding horizon for a moment before Isabela turned to Varric. “You ever miss it? All of us being together in Kirkwall?”

He sighed. “Yup.”

“Me too, surprisingly. If anyone had ever told me I’d actually miss land, I would’ve punch them flat. What have you and Hawke done to me?”

Varric only smiled, letting the question settle instead of being answered.

There was silence (aside from the constant thumping of feet against the deck, the waves, the chatter from the crew, and the never-ending stream of noise that seemed to surround anything owned by Isabela) until it was interrupted by the sound of someone hurling. The two turned to spot Dorian leaning over a railing as Cole rubbed his back. Alarion watched the scene from the other side of the ship.

“Not built for sea travel, is he?”

“Not everyone can be you, Rivaini.”

They watched the three for a moment before Isabela pointed to Alarion. “He was your Inquisitor friend you mentioned I’d like, right?”

Varric sighed, frowning. It was true. When he had finally returned to Kirkwall, he had thrown a small party with the remaining of his friends that were still in the city: Aveline, Donnic, and Merrill. He had been pleasantly surprised when a ship and pulled in and a certain pirate crashed the party bringing, even more, alcohol. He had told them all the good stories about his time with the Inquisition, making special mention of the friends he knew would get along well with the group. Chiefly, Sera, and Alarion and Dorian, for even then he couldn’t imagine one without the other, even if the altus was in Tevinter. All he had said on the matter was if Fenris could avoid ripping out Sparkler’s heart, then there was no question Alarion would fit right in, the bleeding-heart that befriended everyone, that he was.

They talked about throwing a huge party when Hawke finally returned from . And then another one when Alarion would visit. Because, according to the letters he had been sending, he had been planning on going to Kirkwall to close some rifts and visit Varric right after he was done with his clan in Wycome. He remembered the letter excitingly telling him that he might even rope Sera into coming.

But neither he nor Hawke ever came to Kirkwall. Because nothing ever went according to plan.

“That’s him.” He sighed. “The cheerful, talkative, bright sunshine-filled elf.”

“A magister did that to him?”

“It could’ve also been the Qunari. He was found with no memories on Sehron by a magister. The Kid also mentioned something about Fade-shit. Truth be told, we actually have no idea how this happened.”

“Qunari and magisters. What a wonderful mess to put me in, Varric.” Despite her words, her voice held no bitterness. She pointed again. “He’s a skittish little thing, huh?”

He sighed. “All he can remember is being tortured by some sadistic magister bastard.” He frowned harder. “The old Alarion would’ve been up here, chatting your ear off with questions about your ship and telling embarrassing stories about me and asking if you knew any.”

Isabela smiled fondly. “There was that one time when you drank too much with Hawke at the Hanged Man and decided you two were going to become a singing duet.”

“Exactly!” He sighed, stepping away in case Alarion looked up and saw him frowning. Memories or not, Alarion _would_ always fret if he spotted him upset. “Before this happened, he would’ve been up here laughing so hard about that they could hear him in the Free Marchers. It’s weird to see him so quiet and reserved.”

“Hmm.” Isabela paused, looking thoughtful for once. “You think he’s the same man still? Because I haven’t seen that elf smile.”

If Dorian or Alarion had asked him this question, he would have immediately said ‘of course he is’. But this was Isabela. As Cole said, ‘lies for her not at her’. “Truth? I have no idea. He still acts like him, but he also doesn’t. I’m just trying to roll with it and hope for the best. This shit makes no sense to me.”

She laughed just one more time. “Think it makes sense to anyone of us? There’s no clear answer, I don’t think.” She tilted her head, staring at the elf below. “You know what I think he needs? Some fun. Let’s go have fun! We can teach him Wicked Grace! And we’ll teach him wrong so I can always take his coin!”

Varric laughed, a real true smile across his face. “That’s actually a great idea.”

“I’m full of great ideas, Varric. You should know this by now.”

“Great ideas like messing with the Qunari twice?”

She waved that way. “Details, details.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PST, Varric! That "wheel-thing" on the ship you didn't know what it was called... it's called a wheel.
> 
> And Isabela? It took me ten minutes to find the right adjective for you. You're welcome for "sashaying".
> 
> Thanks for reading guys! :D
> 
> EDIT!! Guys, if I could change anything about my fic, I would have Varric describe Isabela's ship like he did [here](https://nightwingspark.tumblr.com/post/156983560520/shepardofthenormandy-failsnail).


	18. Chapter 18

Void take the sea, all ships and boats, and any body of water larger than a bath!

As the damn ship dipped, Dorian felt his stomach roll with it and his stomach immediately emptied, again. How did he have anything left? Why was everything still moving?

Attempting to ignore the vile taste in his mouth, Dorian groaned and spat over the side. Why was this happening?

He placed his forehead on the railing and did not look up until he heard a soft, “Dorian?”

Groaning, he turned to see Alarion there, looking rather sheepish. Oh, of all the moments for the elf to finally gather the courage to approach him… it _had to_ been when he was bent over the side of the ship. And not in a fun way.

But, in the elf’s defense, they had been on the ship for about three days now and Dorian had yet to spend a single one without being sick.

Still, Alarion was coming to him for the first time. This was–

Okay, back over the railing now. Empty whatever was left.

“Are you okay?”

“Lovely.” Dorian commented, voice dripping in sarcasm. “As always.” Shaking his head, he turned back to the elf. “Void take boats.”

The elf gave him a hint of a smile. “If Isabela hears you call it a ‘boat’, she’ll make you scrub something.”

“You’re right about that.” Shaking his head again, Dorian sat down, back against the railing. “Does it ever stop rocking?”

“Not from what I’ve seen.” He pointed to the ground next to Dorian. “May I sit?”

“By all means.” Dorian mumbled, gesturing. “But don’t you dare make a comment about my smell.”

“I won’t.” he replied, sitting.

Attempting to regulate his breathing, he gave his best guess at a smile. “How have you been doing being out in the open?”

He glanced up before speaking. “I like being able to see sky, clouds, and the sun. And I’ve never been in a hammock before. I like it.”

Dorian knew that, growing up, Alarion often slept in hammocks. But he didn’t mention it. Instead, he nodded, “I’m glad.”

He really was. The elf still hid from the rest of the crew, and the sailors always pretended not to notice. On accident, he had overheard Isabela warn them that Varric and Dorian were fair game, but they weren’t to talk to Alarion unless he initiated the conversation.

Just one more thing for Dorian to be beholden for. If he could move past his loathing for her ship, he might remember to thank Captain Isabela one of these days.

Alarion kept looking up at the sky before speaking. “That tea you’ve been giving me? It’s been helping me sleep.”

“Has it? Good.” Dorian gave a sigh of relief, grateful for small blessings. “I’m glad. It’s always helped in the past.”

For a while, Alarion didn’t respond. Until he looked over at him slowly. “May I ask you something, Dorian?”

He felt his heart slam against his chest and unbidden joy and hope pounded. In desperation, he squashed it. It was just a question. Just one question.

But it was more than that! It was Alarion coming to him to ask him a question. Alarion reaching out instead of Dorian pitifully begging for any allowance of contact. This was the first step in their relationship that Alarion has initiated.

“Of course, Alarion. I’m happy to answer questions.” His voice didn’t shake nor did it hold any of the boundless joy he was feeling. Instead, he just gave a small smile to help encourage his still hesitant words.

He nodded, but then struggled to speak. Far too used to this, though it was a bit more common nowadays than it was pre-abduction, Dorian wanted patiently.

“You said we were close.” Alarion started slowly, eventually. “How close?”

Immediately, Dorian felt his face warm as images flowed through his mind.

_Alarion is below me, naked as the day he was born and sweat racing down every inch of his perfect skin. He gives out continuous and pathetic little whines of my name in between his pants. I grin as I continue to run my tongue down his chest. He throws back his head, eyes shut in pleasure as he gives me a delightful whimper before his entire body begins to shudder beneath my touch._

Dorian felt his cheeks grow warm and his pants feel just a little tighter than they were before.

Coughing into a fist, Dorian, for once, wished he wasn’t such an avid observer. He desperately tried not to notice how close they were now. If he just leaned forward, he’d finally feel those wonderful lips against his again. The warmth of his body. Dear Maker, it had been so long.

Hoping Alarion wouldn’t notice, he turned away before turning back. ‘Get your head out of the gutter!’

“Oh, we were at least decently close, I’d wager. But who wouldn’t want to get close to me? Have you met me? I’m marvelous.”

He was about to continue, but Alarion’s glare silenced him in his tracks. He felt his breath hitch at the sight, wanting nothing more than for him to smile instead. Why did he look so upset and hurt? Before he could ponder, Alarion’s quickly whispered, “If you’d rather make fun of me, I’ll leave.”

When he made to stand, Dorian suddenly found his voice speaking without his consent. “Please, don’t go! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean…!”

Taking a deep breath, Alarion returned to glaring at him. “I’m not stupid, Dorian. I may not remember my past, but I’m not stupid.” He folded his arms, eyes watering before tears, unbidden and unwanted, became to flow to show his frustration. As he angrily wiped them away, he murmured quietly, “I’m not stupid.”

“I–”

 “You know what I do remember? The way you looked at me when you found me in the market. It’s not unlike how you looked at me just now. And you know my sleeping habits.” He gulped, looking away. “What else would that suggest? I want the truth. You were the one that said I deserved it in the first place.”

For a moment, Dorian inwardly marveled at him. He had always known Alarion was an observant person, but it really was incredible that he could still see right through him even without memories. Was he really so obvious and transparent? Or was it simply Alarion being Alarion?

Dear Maker. He never was a match for those eyes. They could glare or beg and suddenly Dorian’s resolve would melt away. Whatever he wanted was instantly secondary to whatever those eyes wanted.

The words would not be easy to speak out loud, but Alarion _did_ deserve the truth.

“We were very close,” Dorian whispered, unable to speak more loudly than that. The only way the words managed to come at all was he kept staring into those warm green eyes. So familiar. So lovely even with tears brimming at the edges. “We were best friends but something more. You loved me and I…” The words suddenly pushed against his throat, and he felt his stomach threaten to empty, but not from seasickness. He wanted to scream, cry, run, anything! But Alarion was staring at him. His eyes were softening. He looked scared.

And he deserved to know. After so long of Dorian never telling him, he deserved to know.

But Dorian couldn’t handle the past tense anymore. He just couldn’t! “Love… you. I love you. More than anything, _amatus_.”

Suddenly, he couldn’t be there. He leaped to his feet, gave some form of farewell, and briskly speed-walked, if not ran, away. He didn’t look to see where he was going, but all he knew was he had to get away. Far away. Before those green eyes made him cry.

He found himself in some far corner of the ship where he curled into a ball, hiding behind some crates, and buried his head into his knees. For once, he didn’t care what any passerby thought. It was the last thing on his mind.

All he could think about was Alarion. His Alarion.

The bright smile a constant on his face. His laughter echoing across every room. His chattering voice telling him some story about a misadventure occurring when he was a child. Their quiet reading session with barely anything said between the two of them.

The big moments. The little ones.

In all of the memories, it was Alarion staring back at him. His Alarion.

From the very first time Alarion said the three words, ‘I love you’, Dorian had imagined what it’d be like if (or when) he managed to say it back. At the time, in hindsight, Dorian had been in love with him, he just hadn’t known. And he hadn’t wanted to say it unless he knew for sure. He would wonder if he’d ever love him back (and, in hindsight, Dorian wanted to scream at himself for being so dense).

But he had pictured the moment he’d say it back in quieter moments, despite the fact he’d refuse to admit such a thing. Notwithstanding his inexperience with such a thing, he knew that if that moment ever came, Dorian was absolutely going make it an ordeal worthy of such a patient and loving man.

Never, not once, had he pictured it like this. With the elf not even able to love him back. To not have his confession met with blankness instead of ‘I love you too’.

But, worse, had Dorian been lying?

He threw his head back, smacking it against the wooden wall.

Dorian truly and completely loved his elf. With his messy, yet not unkempt dark brown hair. His black tattoos against his olive skin. A passion for reading nearly echoing his own. His quick smile and even quicker hand outstretched to help any and every one. An overabundance of compassionate that seemed far too large for someone with such small shoulders. His hidden tears that he, bless him, trusted Dorian to see. How bright he got whenever he caught Dorian’s gaze from across the room. The brutal honesty in his face whenever he’d whisper, “I love you so much.”

Maker, Dorian’s heart ached just thinking about how deeply he loved his amatus.

But the elf he just told that to?

He looked like Alarion. His voice sounded like Alarion…

But his word choice was all wrong. He didn’t make terrible jokes to ease those around him. He was so scared of being hurt that he didn’t notice the pain of those around him (not that Dorian blamed him, knowing what he went through).

And he almost never smiled.

And he no longer even like Dorian, let alone loved him. He barely didn’t fear him any longer.

His Alarion and that Alarion didn’t have the same personality.

So, had Dorian lied just now? Or, even worse than that, had he told the wrong person?

The very first time Dorian had ever told anyone that he loved them… and he may have given the confession to the wrong person.

The person Dorian actually loved may still be gone forever. The most he had was this echo of a person that only sometimes acted like his elf every once and a while.

“ _Kaffas_ , Alarion,” he whispered, hugging himself tightly. “I miss you so much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, I did apologize in advance for this chapter back on my blog . Super promise this made me sad to write. Still, as it is, sorry for the feels yall.
> 
> Thanks to [Midoki](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Midoki/pseuds/Midoki) for being my beta reader! Everyone send her love :)
> 
> And, as always, thanks for reading, kudoing, and especially commenting :) love you all


	19. Chapter 19

Captain Isabela had banished him to the lower docks of the ship, just before the level of unmentionables. According to her, he’d get less seasick down there and would stop making her lovely ship smell so terribly. She had also been regulating his diet and spending much of her time bossing him whenever the situation had even the slightest call for it. Dorian wondered if she had somehow sensed he called her ship a boat.

He didn’t mind too terribly, though. He had found this tiny little spot surrounded by crates where he could have a little lantern give him enough light to be able to read. It was a quiet, rarely got traffic, and, placebo or not, Dorian did feel less seasick.

Turning the page, Dorian intently read,

_The relationship of dreamers to the Fade is complex. Even when entering the Fade through the use of lyrium, mortals are not able to control or affect it. The spirits who dwell there, however, can, and as the Chantry teaches us, the great flaw of the spirits is that they have neither imagination nor ambition. They create what they see through their sleeping visitors, building elaborate copies of our cities, people, and events, which, like the reflections in a mirror, ultimately lack context or life of their own. Even the most powerful demons merely plagiarize the worst thoughts and fears of mortals, and build their realms with no other ambition than to taste life._

Ever since Cole had mentioned hearing Alarion go through the Fade, Dorian couldn’t stop thinking about how the elf had lost his memories before. Stolen from the Nightmare Demon and then stolen _back_ when they went through the Fade physically.

His mark had allowed him to absorb what was taken from him, allowing not only him to remember, but all those around them to see the memories as well. Later, at the Basin, they had found little balls of Amerian’s memories left for them to discover. Once again, Alarion had waved his magic hand and his memories had echoed for all to hear.

Could such a thing had happened, again? Had his memories been stolen? If they had been taken, then by whom? Another demon? Bloodmagic?

Alarion wouldn’t have given up easily. Even Cole had mentioned something about Alarion fighting back against ‘being erased’. And there was no one in the world Dorian wanted to fight less than Alarion when he’s backed into a corner. Their trip into the future had proved that.

But what if him falling through the Fade was just a coincidence and it was something else entirely?

What if it was time reversal? He knew that the Venatori had Alexius’ old notes. If applied correctly, it could, theoretically, regress someone and making them younger. Madame de Fer herself once created an age regressing potion. Mix something like that with Dorian’s old time magic notes… had the experiment gone wrong? Thusly regressing his mental state instead of his body and thusly making him have the memories of an infant, yet it remained fully developed so he still managed to keep the ability of speak and adaptation?

Then how does Sehron fit into all of it? Or was that yet one more misleading clue that may just distract him for what he needed to see?

It all somehow was supposed to connect. Fade, Qunari, magister bastards, memory loss, anchor, magic?

There was a connection. He just needed to find it.

And though he had always liked a good mystery to solve, Dorian would’ve preferred the two outcomes to either be his _amatus_ would remember him, or forever have no idea who he was.

But that made finding an answer more desperate. More necessary.

Sighing, Dorian turned and dotted down a few notes in the notebook nearest to him on his right. He then turned to the left and grabbed another note to read:

_Thought for some time to have been stamped out in the Imperium, the practice of blood magic seems to be on the rise in recent years. The current Black Divine has lifted most of the prohibitions against dreamwalking, and so many mages in the Imperium now use it openly in the name of research._

There was a connection. He just needed to find it.

Rubbing his eyes, he glanced up and nearly jumped out of his skin. There, barely visible in the crates, was a single face staring at him.

“Alarion!” He placed a hand over his beating heart. Now spotted, the elf stood and walked over to him. “ _Kaffas_! How long have you been there?”

“Not long.” Alarion leaned against a crate and seemed to look everywhere but at him. “Did I make you angry?”

“No.” Dorian shook his head, attempting to calm his heart. “You merely surprised me. I’ll never understand how you can be so quiet and somehow never give off the feeling of ‘I’m being watched’.”

When the elf didn’t respond, Dorian suddenly realized that this was the first time they were together since he had that… abrupt confession two days prior.

Face reddening, Dorian endeavored to prepare himself for what was sure to be the most uncomfortable and awkward conversation of his life.

“How are you doing?” He attempted.

The elf seemed to ignore him, looking at the wall instead. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded almost far away, as if he was lost somewhere in his mind. “What’s your last name?”

“My… what?”

“Your last name? Or your house name?”

He blinked a couple times. “Pavus. Dorian of House Pavus.”

The elf suddenly sighed and simultaneously dropped so he was curled up in a small ball on the ground. “I,” mumble, “somehow.”

He had whispered so quickly and quietly that Dorian shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Your father…” He looked up, eyes staring at him with such firmness that Dorian felt his pulse quicken. “That would make your father Halward Pavus.”

“I, well, yes. How did you know that?” He suddenly felt ice run down his back. ‘I’m not worried about Father! Not after what he did. I don’t care! I can’t care.’ Hoping he wouldn’t notice how squeaky his voice sounded, Dorian asked, “Did Amladaris mention him?”

“No. At least, not around me.” Alarion shook his head as well.

“Then Varric? Cole?” But why would they do such a thing?

But, ever so slowly, Alarion shook his head.

Then how did…?

Dorian suddenly couldn’t breathe. His chest felt like it was collapsing onto him. “Did you remember?”

“N-not really,” Alarion whispered, once again turning to the wall instead. “I had a dream.” He paused, voice once more gaining that far away tone so similar to Cole’s. “I was in a tavern. I couldn’t see anything, but I could smell it. But then I heard voices talking, but I couldn’t hear them properly. And then… then I heard your voice, but not the words. Then I felt deep hatred.” His expression suddenly went from passive blank to intense anger. “I _loathed_ him!” He snarled, pawing his chest. “So much! Then right before I woke up, I heard the name ‘Halward Pavus’.”

He suddenly looked beyond frantic, pupils dilating. “ _Why_? Why did I hate your father so much? And is this a memory, or just a dream? Did I meet your father in a tavern? Did I hate him? What did he do?”

“You remembered,” Dorian whispered. His mind was blank, unable to think anything other than those two words. He wondered how many times he said it out loud.

“Dorian, please!” He seemed so hurt, almost crying. “Why did I hate him?”

“Oh, Maker.” Dorian was suddenly laughing, despite holding back tears of either joy or misery, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps both. “You remembered!”

“Why did I hate him?”

Unable to resist, Dorian leaped forward and pulled him into a hug before he realized what he was doing and released him. The elf looked so frightened at him, but not even that managed to dampen his spirits. “You remembered!” He hollered.

The elf only stared at him, still looking terrified. “Y-you’re not angry?”

“Angry? Why would I be angry?”

“Because I didn’t remember you instead. A-and I hate your father, apparently.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, falling back to where he was sitting and finally letting go of the elf’s arms. “You met my father a grand total of one time. In a tavern. Where I was yelling at him. Our relationship is complicated, but I truly hated him in that moment too.

“As for not remembering me, why would I fault you for that?” It was, after all, Dorian’s fault. “The fact that you remembered at all is incredible, _amatus_. I’m beyond ecstatic for you.

“What did Halward do?” Alarion whispered, eyes wide.

“Oh, he,” Dorian gulped. “That is a long story, _amatus_. Perhaps another time. Right now, I believe, we should celebrate!”

“R-really?”

“You remembered.” He breathed, smiling so broadly. “We should tell Varric!”

 

o.O.o

 

The two men talked well into the day. Alarion was grateful they didn’t seem to mind that he wasn’t contributing much.  After telling Varric the hazy, yet vivid in emotion, dream, Dorian had taken over the conversation in his stead; speaking adamantly about magic, Fade, and his research. Alarion had a feeling, which he believed Varric shared, that Dorian was just bouncing ideas off of Varric, not seeming to mind that the dwarf had nothing to add to his theories.

And Alarion mostly tuned Dorian out. Nothing personal, it was just weird to hear magic theories about his own mind.

But he looked up when he heard Dorian mention him losing his memories before in the Fade. “I have? I’ve forgotten before?”

“A Nightmare Demon stole it from you,” Varric replied, shrugging with a grin. “Basically, you forgot an entire night. An important night, sure, but losing one night is something half the people in the Hanged Man can claim. Course, yours was because of a demon and theirs is because of shitty ale.”

A bark of laughter escaped his lips at the unexpected joke. Alarion, horrified, covered his mouth and took a step back.

Images and memories flashed through his head.

_A slave slips and falls, and I watch as her friend laughs at her. Before either one can blink, the girl that laughed is being pulled away, sobbing and begging for mercy. I close my eyes, but I remember her face because I doubt I’ll see it again. That night when I’m lying on the ground next to master’s bed, I can hear her laughter. I silently cry because I will know what she’ll sound like screaming. When I hear it echo through the slave quarters that next night, I am not left wondering who. I remember her face. She had to be no older than ten. I remember her because no one else will. I will remember her. I swear I will remember her._

_I hear Anaka laugh, and I flinch. I hear her laugh, and I want to die. I have no choice, no option. I am nothing and she and master are everything. I hear that laugh as my fingers tremble as I remove my shirt. Just please let the whip come quick… But I know that laughter means she wants to take her time. I want to whimper and scream, but all I can do is stare at the ground and wait for the strike that that will come as soon as the laughter stops._

_A faint cough escapes even as I wrestle the sound down. It is too late. He heard. My feet are frozen to the ground. The ice cuts into my skin. The pain is incredible. I want to scream, but I can’t. I stand there, shivering violently. When my teeth begin to chatter, I shut my mouth. To my relief, I do it in time that Master doesn’t hear me and so I don’t get hit. Instead, I must stand there for the rest of the dinner, trying to ignore the pain by thinking about the sun._

The slave began to tremble so terribly that his legs couldn’t support him. He fell, barely registering as the back of his head hit the wall.

He covered his eyes, waiting for the strike to come. He could hear voices, frantic. Anaka was so excited that her voice was trembling. The elf wanted to cry, run, or scream. But he couldn’t. He had made a sound and now it was his duty to take the pain. How else was he supposed to learn?

He was nothing. Just a slave. Absolutely nothing.

And nothing should never make noise.

The slave felt something warm come around his side, pulling him tightly. He waited for the pain to follow, suffocating him in it.

“Your name is Alarion.” A voice was whispering into his ear. “And you are everything.”

“D-don’t hurt me.” The elf begged. “Please, I’m so sorry. Don’t hurt me. I’ll be good.”

“I am Cole.” The voice continued. “And you are Alarion. You are everything.”

“I’ll be good.” The slave whispered, tears silently streaming down his face. “I’m sorry. I’ll be good.”

“Alarion.” The voice continued. “You are Alarion.”

“Alarion?” Another voice whispered. “ _Amatus_?”

“Come on, Alarion!” Yet another voice said. “Come on, Glowy, come back to us.”

“Open your eyes, Alarion.”

“We are your friends.”

“You are everything.”

Still crying, the elf slowly opened his eyes and was immediately greeted by two separate faces, but both wearing similar expressions of worry. He blinked a few times, before whispering, “I know you.”

Dorian looked relieved and Varric even managed a smile. In his ear, he heard a whispering, “You are Alarion, and you are everything.”

“C-Cole?” he turned and saw that Cole had his face buried into his shoulder and his arms tight around him.

“What the hell just happened?” Varric asked, sighing as he sat down on the ground.

“I-I…” Alarion blinked but didn’t want to explain.

“A noise, a sound that means pain to come. Nothingness than battles emptiness.” Cole murmured into his shoulder. He had yet to stop hugging Alarion. “Whips and hits and slips. Nothing to remember but pain. Made senseless by the truth.”

Alarion began to tremble. Just as he wondered if Cole would let go, the lad pulled back, looking at the ground instead of his face.

However, it seemed like Cole wasn’t quite done with them. “A sound of an echo across time and minds. Briefest of moments of happiness before his face crumbles. So scared there are tears in his eyes. Helpless, he falls. I can do nothing but know that I am the cause. What was joy turns to icy sorrow in my mouth.”

Suddenly, Alarion couldn’t be there any longer. Not with their eyes so sad at him. Knowing he was the cause. He was weak. He was foolish.

Without looking back, he ran out of Varric’s room and didn’t stop until he was outside on the bow. The wind whipped at him like the swishes he heard in the air before the strike hit. The sea sprayed against his face like the tears he held back. The salt in his mouth tasted sweat and tears as it had so many times before. He glanced down at the crashing waves and remembered. His first memory, waking up in the tumbles of the ocean. The threat of drowning pumping fear in his veins. The wonder of ‘am I going to die’ long before he realized he didn’t know who ‘ _I_ ’ was.

Alarion closed his eyes and turned so his back was against the wooden railing.

He knew who ‘I’ was now. He was Alarion Lavellan. Beloved friend, brother, and son. The leader of some organization called ‘Inquisition’. Head full of nothing but blanks and pauses and the nagging feeling that he should be more than what he was before he learned that he had a name.

And, apparently, he used to love Dorian, but hated his father.

Shivering, Alarion hugged himself.

Why wasn’t Dorian more upset with him? He remembered hating his father before he remembered loving him. He should be furious, not looking at him with soft concerned eyes. They should be wild, angry.

And it said something about who he was that the first thing he remembered about his past was a memory fueled by hatred.

Hatred.

Curling his fingers against his arms, Alarion felt his body shake for a new reason now.

He _despised_ them!

He hated Magister Amladaris! He hated Magister Pavus! He hated bloodmagic and the way it hurt those innocent slaves. He hated that everything that happened to them was allowed.

He hated that those elves were still at Amladaris’ house, being tortured and tormented.

And he hated that they didn’t even know that things could be different! That there were nice people in this world! Like Varric, Cole, Isabela, and Dorian!

How _dare_ Amladaris! How _dare_ Anaka! How _dare_ Halward!

He hated them. He hated them so much.

And it wasn’t until now did he even realize that he could feel that way. He had always hated them (save Halward whom he just remembered), but he hadn’t realized he was allowed to feel that way.

“I’m free.” He whispered, eyes wide. “I’m allowed to feel.”

He heard shuffling and looked up to see Cole standing over him. “You are the everything,” Cole said before turning and walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter I think so many wanted, but probably not the memory they were hoping for.
> 
> Excerpts from Codex entry: The Fade and Codex entry: Blood Magic: The Forbidden School.
> 
> I growled twice while writing this. The first time was when Dorian went, “two outcomes to either be his amatus would remember him, or forever have no idea who he was.” YOU CAN LET HIM GET TO KNOW YOU AGAIN YOU STUPID WONDERFUL BASTARD!  
> The second time was when Alarion laughed. I had always planned that his first real relapse would happen the first time he laughed. But when it happened, I almost yelled at him. This was supposed to be a happy chapter, dammit!
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone! And thanks to Midoki for being my beta reader.
> 
> Oh, and technically Isabela says, "There's your problem. You need to be up on deck, under the sky, with nothing between you and the horizon." in order not to get sick, but Dorian kept sticking up her beautiful ship so she lied to send him away from it the best she could.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's long. I couldn't find a good place to cut it.

Alarion frowned. He watched the ocean split as the ship glided through it. The sea water spraying him on his face. The wind whipping at this hair.

Five days.

It had been five days since he remembered Halward Pavus and his particular feeling of loathing towards him.

And… nothing since.

Why? Alarion’s face scrunched up and he angrily gripped the railing.

They were his memories. Now that he realized he was a free man, a man that could feel and own things, he wanted his memories. Any memories!

Though it was hazy at best and seemed almost unreal compared to the memories he had prior to waking up on the beach; that single one felt like it belonged to him in a way the others didn’t. Those memories felt almost given to him… like his mast – Amladaris had orchestrated every memory he had to keep. But those memories from before? Those that were stolen from him?

And, though he could never admit it out loud, he really wanted to believe he was the kind of person that would have other memories than one of a feeling of hatred. He wanted to imagine he was a better than that. The way the others talked about him made him feel such a thing wasn’t too farfetched. They made it seem that he had been a good person. A compassionate person.

He gripped the railing a little tighter, hating that his thoughts were running so quickly. He hated the headache it was causing. He hated the sea for keeping him in constant mist. He hated that the first emotion he learned since becoming free was hatred.

“Easy on the wood, sweet thing.”

Alarion gave a start, spinning around quickly to see the captain coming towards him with a gentle smile on her face and her hips swinging. “S-sorry!” He murmured, holding his hands up. “I’m sorry! I-I didn’t mean to.”

“You’re very fidgety, aren’t you? I’m worried a loud noise might make you jump out of your own skin.”

“I…” How exactly should he respond to that?

“Sweetness, you’re like a kitten. It’s adorable.”

“A kitten?” He frowned, trying to remember exactly what a ‘kitten’ was. “That’s a baby cat, right?” If so, was that a compliment?

“Right down adorable.” She grinned, leaning against the railing before gesturing for Alarion to join her. After a moment’s hesitation, Alarion did. “You’ve been awfully secluded. I don’t think I’ve seen you since that night of Wicked Grace four days ago.”

The memory of the night came slowly. Cards, wine, laughter. Alarion had been glad to be a part of it, despite the fact he had rarely joined in and had opted to mainly watch and occasionally speak up. It meant a lot to him that Isabela never seemed to force him to talk. Or anyone, for that matter. Now that Alarion thought about it, no one seemed to mind that he never contributed much to the conversations, yet always encouraged him when he did.

“You’ve been so nice to me. Everyone has.” He murmured out quietly. “Thank you.”

“Sweet thing, you seem surprised.”

He shrugged. It seemed pointless to remind her that Alarion had never met her before now and he hasn’t exactly been as warm as someone like Varric has. She already knew this.

After they watched the water for a moment, Isabela smiled before turning towards him. “Tell me, have you enjoyed being at sea?”

Alarion nodded vigorously before looking out at the horizon. “I like being able to see really far out with no stop in sight. It… makes me feel like I’m flying.”

Isabela grinned at him, delight in her face. “The wind whipping at your hair? No limits? True freedom.”

“I…” He hesitated before closing his eyes to let the wind rush over him. “It’s a good feeling.”

“Nothing like it in the world, sweetness. You can spend the rest of your life looking for it, but I promise nothing else feels like sailing.”

They lapsed into silence, letting the wind be the sole noise around them. Wind. Sea salt spraying in their faces. Nothing being spoken between the two of them. After a while, Isabela smiled at him. “You should visit Varric, sweet thing.” Before she strutted off.

Alarion blinked and stared out at the horizon a little longer. Despite the fact her advice came out of nowhere and quickly, it had been a while since he spoke with the dwarf. He kind of miss him. Nodding to his own thoughts he turned and headed towards Varric’s berth. Being Isabela’s friend had earned him a tiny almost cabin-like room next to the captain’s quarters. When he knocked, a warm voice almost immediately beckoned him in.

The opening door revealed Varric lying on his back, a book open in his hands. He was watching the doorway, and grinned as he spotted him. “Hey there, Glowy.” He shut the book, sitting up. “Good to see you. It’s been a while.”

Was that an accusation? Didn’t sound like one with his warm, kind voice. But, just in case… “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Varric’s smile grew. “How’s everything going for you?”

Alarion was beginning to understand that Varric was never going to outright admit he was worried. Instead, he just asked questions. He liked that about him.

Giving him a small smile in return, he said, “I’ve been doing fine.”

“Eh, glad to hear it. Me? Not the biggest fan of this whole ‘nature thing’. Still prefer the city.”

Curious, Alarion took a step forward and was still grateful Varric didn’t seem to mind. He remembered the stories Varric told him quite vividly. “Kirkwall is a big city, right?”

“Much bigger than Qarinus.”

“So what’s it like? Living in a c-city I mean.”

“Ever heard the saying that a city has a heartbeat? No? Eh, don’t worry about it. Think of it like this: a city’s alive. You can walk around and just see it full of people always running around. Everything is so much faster in the city. I like that. It seems like the city is always moving.” For a moment Varric paused, nodded, before saying, “Yeah, Kirkwall’s shitty, but it’s my home.”

Alarion didn’t bother asking if Varric missed it. His brief pause said it all. He wondered if this was an appropriate time to ask somehow how they were doing.

Before he could decide, Varric spoke. “Eh, enough about that shithole. You doing alright out here in the open like this?”

Ah, Dorian had asked him the same question only a week ago. A week ago when…

What he was feeling must had shown on his Varric as said, “Ah. I get it. Not much of a sailing guy either. Don’t tell Isabela, though.”

“No… uh, that’s not…” Alarion brought his hands up, wringing them together as he looked away. “I, uh…”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to.”

“No, that’s not either! Can,” he gulped, “Can I ask you a question, Varric?”

“Sure, Glowy.”

“Do you… think Dorian’s angry with me?”

“Sparkler? Mad at you? Heh, doubtful. Did you risk your life recently? No? Cause that’s the only way that human would ever be mad at you.”

“B-but he should be angry with me.” He had hurt him so badly; and then not remembered him!

“Alright Glowy, start from the top. Why would Sparkler be mad at you?”

“W-well…”

After giving him a moment, Varric raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. “This isn’t about remembering that you hated his old man, is it? Cause there’s no way he would care about that.”

“Ah… only in part.” Sighing, Alarion weighed his options. Varric now knew something was bothering him. Therefore, it was sooner rather than later that he would figure it out. Might as well tell him. “It’s been five days since I remembered something. Should I be discouraged? Was it just a fluke?”

“Eh,” he shrugged, “That mage of yours still hasn’t given up, so I won’t either.”

‘ _Your_ mage’. Alarion knew what that meant now.

Alarion brought his arms up and hugged himself. “That’s the other reason why he should hate me.”

“Wait, you think Sparkler hates you?” Varric unfolded his arms, looking at him with a look that screamed bewilderment. “You honestly think that?”

“No,” Alarion whispered. He remembered his gray eyes, nearly wet and pleading _. ‘I love you. More than anything,_ amatus _.’_ “I don’t think he does. But he should.”

“That man isn’t capable of hating you. Trust me.”

“But he should,” Alarion whispered, just a little louder than before. “He really should.”

“Okay, Glowy. I seem to be missing a story here. What happened between you and the human that I haven’t heard about?”

Alarion bit his lip before internally shrugging. He had said this much already. “A week ago… I confronted him about something.”

“Oh no. What?”

“O-our relationship. I-I didn’t understand exactly what kind of relationship we used to have. But I had my suspicions.”

Varric let out a low whistle. “And? How’d the conversation go?”

“I…” Shame. The nearly moist sensation of dripping down his back, stemming from his hung head. “I got mad. I-I thought he was making fun of me. So… I demanded that he tell me. I was mad.”

Varric murmured something under his breath but was otherwise silent. He was waiting for Alarion to finish. Gulping, Alarion had to look up at the ceiling. He just had to get through it. Once it was out, it’d be free.

“I pushed, and he told me. Said that we were best friends, but something more. He told me that I once loved him and that he still loves me more than anything.”

“Andraste, what happened next?”

“He just sort of ran away? I-I didn’t chase him. Wait! Should I have?”

“Just take a deep breath, okay?”

Nodding, Alarion did take a large inhale before slowly releasing, in sync with Varric. “Look, those no easy answers here. But my honest opinion? Dorian’s probably thinking he’s ruined everything. He probably thinks you hate him. And he’s going to keep on thinking that unless you approach him. You don’t have to say anything. No, really. You don’t. Just go up to him.”

“You really think that’ll work?” Alarion had to look away again, staring now at his fingers as he attempted to stop them from fidgeting. Sure, he had approached Dorian first and foremost when he woke up that morning, but that was different. He had to know Dorian’s last name. He had to…

It wasn’t until he had seen the human deep inside of a book, nodding, frowning, slightly chewing on his lip, taking notes every few minutes, and being completely engrossed in the words did he even realize that there was a strong possibility of Dorian not wanting to be around him crossed his mind. When he stood there, watching him, Alarion knew he should leave. But he didn’t. And when the minutes ticked by, Alarion stayed.

He had spent so long being terrified of Dorian. And, though he did his damnedest, he still sometimes was (course, he still had his moments where even Varric still scared him). But, in that moment, Dorian had been fascinating to watch.

What was it about Dorian reading? Before Alarion had accepted what he knew as truth (he wasn’t a slave, his name was Alarion, etc.) and he was still petrified of ‘the madman’; he had still stayed when one of his first bits of exploring and led him to find Dorian reading on the table. Some part of him knew he should run before Dorian noticed him (and he eventually did, seeking out Varric instead), but it had been after a good moment of watching him.

He knew he shouldn’t have been staring. And when Dorian finally noticed him, the shame he had felt had been real.

Dorian wasn’t mad when he had been spotted. He should’ve been, but he wasn’t.

When Alarion didn’t remember him instead, he should’ve been mad.

There was no possibility that Alarion hadn’t angered him when he forced him to confess. He couldn’t be that lucky.

“You two,” Varric’s voice brought him back to reality so quickly that Alarion jumped. “Have always been like this. You guys overthink everything. Just go talk to him.” He sighed through those words, sounding like he was (finally) losing his patience. “Honestly, what do you have to lose at this point? The guy is already devoted to you and isn’t going anywhere.”

Alarion gulped and curled his fists. “Thanks, Varric. I’ll do that.”

“Anytime, Glowy.” He shook his head before chuckling. “Maker help me if you two dance around each other too much.”

Despite it being a fun mental image, Alarion didn’t completely understand Varric’s joke. He wasn’t even entirely sure he knew how to dance.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Door’s always open.”

Once back outside, Alarion took a deep breath of that sea air (sprinkled with more than just a hint of body odor) before heading towards stairs. That led directly to the gun deck. There were a few crewmembers there, but they paid him little mind as they continued their dice game. A quick glance around revealed no sign of the mage he was looking for. Biting his lips and steeling his resolve, Alarion continued down.

Now he was on the berth deck. A few crates littered the edges, but almost everything around them was just hammocks and a few personal possessions beyond a couple pairs of clothes. Alarion had a small hammock slightly obscured from vision by a purple cloth, but he didn’t have much stuff to fill the space. Beyond a couple pair of clothes that Isabela had given him, he didn’t have anything else. But what else was new? It was weird that he ‘owned’ clothes at all (Captain Isabela was very adamant that they were his). Maybe he had some belongings back in that Sky-Place. That was a weird thought, though.

One deck lower and he was with the storage. Crate and barrels full of food, water, grog, wine, and scattering trinkets littered the entire deck.

In the closest equivalent to a corner that a ship could have, sat Dorian, nose deep in a book. Surrounding him was a circle of tomes and scattered papers that occasionally moved around as a breeze swept through, or the ship dipped. Lastly, the crates surrounding him obscured much of the view.

Despite knowing he’d find him here, Alarion still felt his heart slam into the back of his throat. He debated running while he still had the chance.

‘Don’t be a coward, Alarion.’

Noting that his inner voice was starting to sound a bit like Varric, Alarion cleared his throat to let Dorian know he was there.

The mage looked up at the noise, and beamed (or the closest to a beam that the subtle man would give) when he spotted him there. “Alarion.”

“Dorian,” Alarion approached a little closer, hoping that it wasn’t too obvious that he was shaking. He should go. He should run… Run before he gets too mad!

“I see that you’re sick of being on the main deck. The wind finally get to you?”

‘N-no.” He hesitated, gulped, then said, “Came looking for you, actually.”

“Oh? Need me for something?”

“Uh, n… no. I-I should go, huh? I’m probably interrupting your reading.”

“Please, don’t! I could use the distraction.”

For a moment, Alarion stood frozen in place. The flippant tone suggested that he was merely bored. But the quickness? The way the words were nearly blurted out? Dorian did genuinely want him here.

It wasn’t until Dorian looked at him unsure did Alarion realize he hadn’t replied or moved. He felt his face warm and hoped Dorian wouldn’t notice. “Um, sure. That sounds good.”

_Kaffas_! His voice was shaking, damn it.

To his relief, Dorian didn’t call him out on it, only waved him over. Cautiously, Alarion got closer. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, his body was still preparing for Dorian’s anger to end with a strike.

‘Not going to happen. It’s not going to happen. He’s not going to hurt you.’

When he got close enough, he looked around and found a spot uncluttered by paper. He was across from where Dorian sat, about two feet away from him.

Said man was frowning. “Forgive me. I only have the one pillow.”

Oh. He was… “It’s fine. I don’t mind sitting on the floor.”

“Please, you can–”

“I’m fine–”

“Of course have it–”

“Dorian, really–”

Then, simultaneously, “I’m fine.” And “It’s fine.”

They blinked at each other before a small chuckle burst from Alarion’s mouth. He raised a hand, surprised at the noise.

He waited.

But no bad memories came up.

So he laughed again, his entire body seized up in the motion. The sure element of surprise of his mirth caused the laughter to circle to back onto itself. And, before he could really understand what was happening, Alarion was holding his sides, laughing.

Laughing.

For a moment, Dorian seemed hesitant. But his face slowly broke until he was smiling. And that led him to grinning.

And before either person could really understand what was happening, they were both laughing. Stitches grew in their sides, but that didn’t stop them.

When the hilarity finally subsided some time later, they were wiping away tears. Alarion let his face settle at an almost smile, echoing the same look on Dorian’s face.

Silence followed, but it hardly seemed awkward.

But, after a good moment, Dorian titled his head at him and said, “Care to hear the story of your _vallaslin_?”

“M-my what?”

“The _vallaslin_ across your face.” He gestured with a finger. “If I woke up one day and had tattoos all over my handsome face; well, it would be a great crime, but at least an intriguing story.”

Alarion raised a hand to touch his skin. It felt no different were the tattoos laid, but he knew they were there. “I never thought to ask, actually.”

The mage smiled for a moment before responding. “Truly? Well, I understand. You’re more curious about us than you, yes?”

“Yes,” Alarion admitted, nodding along as well. “But I am curious now. Tell me, Dorian, what is the story behind my _valley-seem_?”

“Do you know the customs behind it?”

“No.”

Folding his arms, the man began the tale. His accent mixed well with the words of the common tongue, vastly different when Varric would spin a story. It was interesting to hear the way the man twist a word. It was if he had practiced seeing which words sounded better with the right emphasis. “The _vallaslin_ is a tradition amongst the Dalish. It is a way to show the world that you are Elvhen, and proud of it. Instead of living with humans, the Dalish live with nature. They have clans all over Thedas.

“But I digress. Around the age of 18, an elf has the chance to receive blood writing, or, as it is in Elvish, _vallaslin_. It’s a rite of passage. A ‘coming-to-age’ of sorts. Each design of a _vallaslin_ is a way to honor a certain god or goddess.”

“How many gods and goddesses are there?” Alarion interrupted.

“Five gods, four goddesses. Mostly commonly referred to as ‘The Creators’.”

“Creators? What did they create?”

“The world.”

“And that’s true?”

Dorian unfolded but quickly refolded his arms. “It is at least that’s what the Dalish believe.”

“You… disagree?”

“I happen to be Andrastian.”

“Andrastian?”

“Someone who believes in Andraste and the Maker.”

“Who’s that?”

Dorian gave a sigh, eyes twinkling in amusement. “So many questions.”

His face flushed with these words. “Sorry!”

“Not at all. But one story at a time, yes? Now, what was I talking about? A yes, gods. Each vallaslin is tattooed to honor a certain god or goddess. Your vallaslin is the design of the God June: Creator of Crafts, and brother to Andruil and Sylais, the Goddess of Hunt and God of Fire respectably. According to the legend, the God June taught the elves to craft arrows, bows, and knives in order to hunt Andruil’s animals while Sylais taught them how to use fire.”

“God You-un,” Alarion whispered. He pressed a hand against his forehead, wishing the words would jog some form of memory.

“The God June gave the elves the crafts. You told me that you chose him over the Goddess of the Hunt because you had always felt that June was a teacher. Sylais did teach the elves fire and thread, but June taught innovation. Thanks to him, elves had knives, bows, and a purpose. You told me that you always imagined him to be the reason behind knowledge today.”

“And… I-is that true?”

“Well, I am afraid that this story does come to you second-handily. I am hardly an expert on elven beliefs. I can only repeat what you told me.”

“Wait,” Alarion blinked, only one thought running through his head. “You know all of that because _I_ told you? H-how many times?”

Dorian gave him a slight eyebrow raise. “Just the once, Alarion. I am not so dense that I need to be told a story twice.”

“Wait,” He gulped now, trying to word his thought. “You remembered all of that because I told you once? A-and I must have told you a long time ago. How did you remember?” Why did he remember?

After a moment of silence, Dorian folded his arms and gave him a smirk. “It’s a story that was important enough for you to have your face tattooed with your own blood. That’s at least a decent enough reason for me to remember it, yes?”

Clearing his throat, he looked away from Alarion’s face. “Well, Alarion, I don’t know about you but I am famished. Shall we go check on dinner?”

Alarion nodded. He was beginning to understand that Dorian would change the subject whenever he started to feel uncomfortable.

Perhaps if he had tried to understand that earlier, he would’ve noticed his _“Oh, we were at least decently close, I’d wager. But who wouldn’t want to get close to me? Have you met me? I’m marvelous.”_ as what it was: a method to deflect. If he had, then maybe instead of taking it personally, he would’ve recognized Dorian’s pain and not have pushed. Then he wouldn’t have hurt him like he did. Then Dorian wouldn’t be angry with him.

If Alarion got out of his own head, he may have noticed he had been hurting him.

And they started to walk towards the main deck, Alarion found himself frowning.  The old Alarion would’ve noticed. He knew that the old Alarion would’ve noticed.

Behind Dorian’s back, Alarion raised a hand and rubbed his cheek. The black lines and dots on his beneath his touch… the Alarion with memories held knowledge very highly, apparently.

And he couldn’t even read!

Crossing his arms now, Alarion’s frown loosen just a little. Varric _had_ offered to teach him…

Maybe that offer still stood?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I'm on Varric's side. Those two overthink everything -_-
> 
> Special thanks to Midoki for being my beta reader. And thanks to all my wonderful readers :)


	21. Chapter 21

Dorian sighed, setting the book down. This was his third time reading it. Once? Completely understandable. Twice? He wanted to make sure he didn’t miss something that might be helpful to Alarion. But thrice? There wasn’t a good excuse for that.

He fiddled with the book’s binding, wondering to himself if Josephine had gotten his letter asking for those books about the Fade to be there when they finally arrived.

Until then, he had nothing to read. He had already finished every book they had on the Qunari, bloodmagic, of the Fade. In all fairness, that was a grand total of five books. In them, there was no mention, hint, or clue as to why such a thing could relate to memory loss. Sure, he could read it again just in case, but he knew there was no hope of such a thing. If he missed something noteworthy the first time (which, knowing him, was nearly impossible), he would have most definitely noticed it the second.

He was a long away from finally arriving at Skyhold and he didn’t have anything to read.

Huffing, he leaned back and let himself mope for a little while.

But opened his eyes and glared when he heard and subsequently spotted Varric approaching. “Yes?”

“Thought I’d let you know that Alarion’s reading lessons have been going well.” Varric said, smiling. “I barely had to teach him anything. After a few basic lessons, Glowy started reading nearly as quickly as he used to. I guess it’s still rattling somewhere in there. Thought you’d find that interesting.”

Dorian nodded at him. That was good news. First the Fade allowing him to remember Fa– Halward, now remembering to read after only a few lessons? That was a good sign. He should look into where exactly the brain stored the knowledge of reading and if it was connected to memories or not. That Tranquil girl in charge of animals would likely know. He couldn’t remember her name though.

“Thank you Varric. I will look into that.” He turned and quickly wrote himself a note so he wouldn’t forget. When he looked up again, he noticed Varric was still standing there. “Yes? Something else?”

Varric sighed before rolling his eyes. “You realize it’s been almost two days since you spoke to Alarion? The elf is going crazy, thinking he did something wrong.”

“I… has it been that long?” It had been nothing but a blur of time to him. Sleeping when he could, throwing up what little he ate, reading whenever he had the chance.

Varric took a long moment to show Dorian he was rolling his eyes yet again. “You two are hopeless. Just go talk to your elf before he worries himself into an early grave. Or, worse, gray hair that you’ll never shut up about.”

In reply, Dorian simply rolled his eyes as well which the dwarf took his cue and left. But the thought that he has been making Alarion feel like he was being purposely ignored made him uneasy. Deciding it was for the best, he left his little circle of books and set off to find the elf.

Once as he started to climb the stairs, he began to feel nauseous and was extremely grateful he didn’t eat just before. Carefully, he kept climbing until he reached the top. He wobbled for a moment, wondering if he was going to be sick, but the wave passed and he was soon breathing okay. The two nearest crewmen were laughing at him, but he ignored them and walked on.

The ship around him seemed the same as always, some hard at work, some gambling, and the sun sneaking through the clouds above. The wind sprinkled with water spray hit against him, causing him to curse the Maker for thinking that wind and water were a good mix.

He found Alarion staring into the ocean at the top of the bow, leaning over the side enough that it made Dorian nervous. Making sure he could hear his approach, Dorian walked over to him.

The elf looked up just before Dorian arrived. His eyes grew wide and he let out a little, “Dorian?”

“We haven’t spoken in a while.” Dorian said, cheerfully. “I was wondering how the reading lessons have been going.”

“Good.” He looked surprised, but then that faded into a large grin. “Great, actually. I can read really well now. It’s a lot of fun.”

“Isn’t it?” Dorian titled his head, smiling fondly. He had to speak a little louder over the wind that just grew stronger. “I do enjoy a good book.”

Alarion smile slowly dropped. “You’re cold.”

Dorian _was_ shivering. “It’s not too terrible.” He lied.

For a moment, the elf just watched him. “Want to go talk down inside the ship? It’s nicer in there.”

Smiling graciously, Dorian nodded and the two of them walked back the way Dorian just came. He had to pause in the same spot as before to make sure he wasn’t going to sick (they both ignored the roaring laughter), before they walked down to the storage room. Alarion perched onto a crate and Dorian lowered himself down onto his pillow.

“Why do you get so seasick?”

“A mystery for the ages.” Dorian groaned shaking his head.

When the elf didn’t reply, just watched him, Dorian spoke up. “So, you’re enjoying reading then?”

His eyes alit with joy. “I really do! I thought I’d like it, but I had no idea how much.”

“It truly is wonderful.” Dorian mused, adopting a similar smile. “You can learn things from books that you would never from speaking with people. You can travel to places you’ve never heard of, even ones that don’t really exist. You can read about years of history in hours. You can meet characters that are, at times, more real to you than the people you meet.”

“That’s so true!” The elf gushed, face revealing his excitement. It made Dorian’s heart soar to see that he was finally comfortable and happy enough that he wasn’t afraid to show his emotions. It was as much refreshing as it was reminiscent. “I love the idea that books can tell a story even years after the person that wrote it is gone. It’s like they’re immortal!”

Dorian smile grew. “What has Varric been giving you to read?”

“Some history books. Did you know there’s these people called Grey Wardens? They can stop these things called ‘Blights’.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ve heard them mentioned once or twice. You’re actually friends with a Grey Warden.”

“I am?” He seemed very taken back.

Which just prompted more laughter from Dorian. “A warden by the name of ‘Thom Rainier’, actually. Long story, his, but you did seem to get along just fine with the man.”

Alarion paused, thinking about this. “I have a lot of friends, don’t I?”

“Far more than I think even _I_ can realize. You’re quite popular.”

“Varric tells me about someone of them, sometimes.” Alarion said, looking away for only a moment. “But I think it makes him sad to talk about friends. S-so I try not to ask.”

“Observant as always.”

“You think?”

“I know.” Dorian smirked. “Well, you can always ask me questions, if you’d like.”

“Can I?” He looked overjoyed at this before attempting, and failing, to school his expression a little more serious. It only caused Dorian to laugh again. “Um, he actually mentioned someone to me… b-but I don’t know who ‘Buttercup’ is.”

“Buttercup? Oh, right, Sera. Strange girl. She’s an elf, but hates it when you point that out. Think of a loud-mouth bundle of jokes and arrows about the same size of you that swears like one of Isabela’s crew and laughs like someone attempting to breath under water.”

Alarion paused before chuckling. “Really?”

“She’ll probably pull a prank on you at one point. Consider this your warning; it may involve bees.”

“Huh. And she’s one of my friends?”

“You are very close with her, actually.” Dorian folded his arms, frowning now. “I hope someone informed her that you’re alive. Let’s just say from the letters I received, she didn’t exactly handle your death that well.”

“Oh.” He looked down, fidgeting.

Change of subject then. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, actually. Now that you can read again, there’s a book at Skyhold you’ll find interesting.”

“Really? What’s it about?”

“You, actually.” Dorian grinned. “You kept a diary and wrote in it nearly every day.”

“Wait, really?” His eyes went wide. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Dorian shrugged. “It wasn’t common knowledge _and_ I didn’t tell you sooner because you didn’t know how to read.”

“And it’s at that Sky-place?”

“Our friend Cassandra has been keeping it safe.”

“Cassandra?” He frowned. “I don’t remember Varric mentioning her.”

“Has he mentioned someone called ‘Seeker’? That would be her.”

“Oh… He doesn’t like her.”

Dorian laughed. “The feeling is quite mutual between the two of them. But you two were quite fond of each other. You even named her Inquisitor should something happen to you. And… something did. She’s been Inquisitor for a few months now. To the surprise of none, she’s doing well at the fighting part, but not so much the political.”

“I… see.”

“Back to my original point, she’s been safekeeping your diary since your disappearance. She offered to send it to me after they threw your funeral, but I…” ‘Never responded’. ‘Refused to go’. ‘Didn’t want their sympathies’. ‘Just wanted to stay drunk and miserable, refusing to believe others were suffering too’. ‘Desperately wanted to believe that only I knew how special you were and that no one else would miss you’. ‘Forgot how much you mean to so many people’. ‘Wanted to wallow in self-pity for as long as I could’. ‘Wanted to believe it was all a lie and the idea of a funeral was too real’. ‘Receiving your diary would be just like a glimpse into what I lost’. ‘Knew it would be full of love for me and I was so guilty knowing that I never told you’.

He gulped to hold down all those truths. “Well, considering how alive you are, the diary is yours once again.”

Alarion looked at him, brows pinched and eyes accusing as if he could sense how turmoil he felt inside. Instead of mentioning that, however, he said, “I think I’d like to read it. It’d be interesting.”

“Quite. I had hoped you’d enjoy learning that.”

“I think–” but he stopped, looking to the entry way.

Before he could ask, Cole came barreling through, looking scared. “The sea is _mad_! It doesn’t like that the clouds are heavy and the wind is loud!”

The two shared a look as Cole ran off. Dorian shrugged and Alarion said, “Should we head up and see what he was talking about?”

Nodding, the two started up to the top, only to be stopped by a crewmember. He glanced at Alarion before pointing to Dorian. “Storm’s brewing, sick-boy. Hold onto your lunch.”

“Just a moment!” Dorian grabbed his arm just before the man could run off. “How bad of a storm are you talking about?”

“Who’s to say? Lady sea isn’t always kind.” He shrugged before he left them.

“A storm?” A glance towards the elf revealed a bright grin. “I’ve never _seen_ rain!”

Dorian sighed. A storm out at sea could be dangerous. “We ought to find our dear captain and see if we can be of use.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's trying _REALLY_ hard to figure out how Alarion lost his memories. I'm curious if any of you have figured it out yet :)
> 
> Thanks to Midoki for being my beta reader :) send her love!
> 
> And thank you guys for reading, commenting, and kudoing! You're my favorite people on the internet :D


	22. Chapter 22

The first hint Alarion should’ve seen was how resigned Dorian looked. Or perhaps how serious Isabela’s crewman seemed. But he managed to ignore it successfully. Despite having no clue as to why he wanted to so badly, there was such  _excitement_ in the sheer idea of seeing rain for the first time. It was his favorite weather. He didn’t know why it was, it just was.

But he didn’t let logic get in the way of the excitement.

That didn’t happen until he was on the deck, closely at Dorian’s heels. The entire crew was there, and they were scrambling. There was no rain, but the wind from before was back with a vengeance. Worried, Alarion glanced over at Dorian for some form of reassurance, only to see the mage frowning as he stared at a steadily approaching dark mass of clouds.

For a moment, Alarion couldn’t tear his eyes away. He had  _never_  seen such a dark gray before. He hadn’t even known clouds could look like that.

Worried, he took a step back, only to run into a crewman. Alarion flinched, and held up his hands. “I’m sorry!”

The man didn’t even seem to notice as he was already running off.

Dorian turned towards him. He opened his mouth but was cut off as Isabela’s voice rang out. “Brand! Are all the filthy sea dogs on deck?”

“Aye, Captain!”

“Good! Hold onto your balls, boys and batten down the hatches! This is going to be a real tumble.”

As choruses of, ‘aye, Captain’s rang out, Alarion felt the first beginning of fear trickle in. He felt his breath begin to quicken as he cast his eyes back out to the horizon. His attention was torn away as he watched the lower decks be sealed off with a large beige canvas.

“Furl the sails! And Brand, I swear if even one deadlight is unfastened there’ll be hell to pay!”

“Aye, aye, Captain!”

“Crow? What say you?”

“Storm’s getting closer, Cap’n! I give us 8 minutes.”

“Lines in place?”

“Not yet, Captain,”

“Make it fast, you lubbers!”

Before Alarion could even begin to understand anything that was going on, a crewman pushed past him shouting, “Gangway, lubber!”

Just as he felt the bump, the ship pitched and Alarion lost his balance.

He narrowly avoiding fall on his face as a pair of hands grabbed him. He looked up to see Dorian glaring. “Are you alright?”

Alarion glanced back at the horizon before turning back to the mage’s face. When he did, the man quickly let go of him. “I-I...” He gulped, trying to master the hysteria building. “Th-this isn’t safe, is it?”

For a moment, the  _altus_  hesitated. “No.” He finally said. “It’s not. But before you get too scared,  _amatus_ , you need to remember something:  _I’m_ here. I’ll protect you. You needn’t worry.”

Words failed him. He didn’t know how to respond. But it seemed that Dorian didn’t need one. He was smiling at him. “Come on, then. Let’s head up to the wheel with Isabela and Varric.”

Alarion could only nod as he followed the mage. A part of him wondered if this meant Dorian wasn’t mad at him anymore…

The two finished their climb just as Isabela was folding her arms, glaring at Varric. “I already  _told_  you. No, no we can’t just ‘go around it’. We’re not near enough to any shore to windward. Leave the sailing to me, Varric.”

“Aw, c’mon Rivaini.” Varric looked really uncomfortable. When he glanced over at the approaching storm, his uneasiness seemed to grow. “Are you  _completely_ sure?”

“Yes! Now, either tie yourself down or hide in your cabin. This is going to – well hey there! I thought you two were below deck.”

Dorian shook his head, approaching closer. “I wanted to see if we could be of any assistance.”

Isabela smiled at the pair of them. “Landsmen in a storm? What luck for you two. Well, the sails are trimmed and the stern is in place. There’s not much we can do but ride it out.”

As if knowing Isabela had finished her sentence and needed proof, a crack of thunder bellowed across the sky and splatter of rain began to softly fall.

Alarion gasped, and cast his eyes upwards. He… he could see rain! It was if the sky itself was falling. Gently, he closed his eyes against the collapsing sky and could suddenly feel each and every drop that hit him. The sensation was  _entrancing_. Crispy chill. Drops of softness.  _Rain._

Something wrapped its way around his waist. He jumped a league, opening his eyes to see Isabela smiling gently at him as she finished an intricate knot to secure the rope now around him. When the knot finished, she winked at him before handing him a bucket. “Don’t want you getting any ideas about swimming, sweet thing.”

Alarion followed the rope and could see that he was now effectively tied to the mast. “I-I can help you?”

“Only if you want to, sweet thing. You’re still welcome to hide in Varric’s cabin.”

“N-no. I want to help. I-if I can?”

“Welcome aboard.” Isabela winked at him again before grabbing another rope and tying it around Dorian’s waist as well. “Hold onto your lunch, alright?”

Before she could get an answer, a voice cried out, “Lines are belayed, cap’n!”

“Good! Steady with the anchor and let’s have some fun!”

Cheers erupted from the crew mingled with shouts of, “Aye, aye!”

 

o.O.o

 

Alarion wasn’t sure how much time had passed. What was entrancing at first was now misery reincarnated as he threw bucket after bucket of water over the railing of the ship. Whenever the ship pitched too roughly, he would fall and receive a face-full of both water and wood before stumbling to his feet. He was oddly annoyed at all of Isabela’s men seemed to be fine with it and not only hadn’t fallen yet, but they also didn’t seem to have to be tied to anything. The rope around his waist... Safer? Sure. But the rope was such a hindrance.

The anchor kept them unmoving as the waves rocked them, keeping the ship safely pointed at the waves.

Isabela’s commanding voice was the only one of three constants surrounding him. The second was the unending water that Alarion refused to lose to. Lastly was Dorian, who hadn’t left his side yet.

The ship pitched again, and Alarion felt himself slip and barely managed to keep ahold of his bucket. Dorian materialized at his side and pulled him up.

He smiled his thanks, knowing his voice would be difficult to hear over the wind.

And, again, as if on cue (this storm did have a knack for dramatic irony), thunder erupted around them, drowning out all noise.

After Dorian let him go, Alarion shivered and bent down to throw more water over, only to fall again. He cursed, and went to stand at the same time as Dorian fell next to him.

This wasn’t as easy as the sailors made it look.

From the storm herself, Isabela appeared and dragged the both of them to their feet. She pointed right at Dorian’s chest and shouted to be heard. “Crow’s spotted lightning! I need your help!”

“How?”

“You’re a mage! Give the lightning a beacon instead of  _us_! Go to the prow –  _the fucking pointy front of the ship_  and shoot lightning out of your hands!”

Without giving him a chance to argue, she pushed him towards the way. Dorian only spared a glance at Alarion, giving him an almost apprehensive look, before running where he was told.

And Alarion was alone.

He bent down and threw more water off of the deck.

The crew around him was in an endless process of tying and securing things down.

A flash of light erupted across his sight and Alarion looked up too late to see the lightning fully. But he did see Dorian standing at the bow with his hand outstretched.

He looked down again to get another bucketful of water.

The ship gave a bigger dip, but he was okay this time.

All he could taste was salt. All he could feel was cold. All he knew was the bucket in his hands.

Blinding white lighted forked and branch off of the main strike made him smell as if the air and the water were burning.

Despite the utter fear of where he was and what was happening, Alarion couldn’t resist but admire such an unbelievable force of nature.

But that melted into frustration as his cheek got reacquainted with the wooden deck. Grumbling, he went to the rope on his waist to hoist himself up, only to pull and have no resistance. Frightened, Alarion tugged harder and was suddenly met with a clean break on the end of the rope.

Something must’ve fallen on it! Something must’ve cut it!

Shit!

With fresh fear heightening his sense  _even more so_ , Alarion leaped to his feet the best he could. He needed to find Isabela, Varric, or Dorian. They could help him.

He took a few steps forward but fell before he could make it very far. It wasn’t just the ship bobbing that was working against him! His clothes weighed too much. The air itself was heavy. He was cold. His movement was slowed with his clammy movement and his shivering. He could hardly get up again. Everything was weighing him down.

Grunting, Alarion forced himself up at the wrong moment. The ship dipped and he slipped. Stumbling back the way he came, his back collided with the railing. The wood pressed up against his back so painfully that Alarion couldn’t help but cry out. Despite the ache, a frantic thought burst through him: he had to run! If he didn’t move, he’d likely tumble overboard.

Attempting to move from the spot only made his feet slip from under him. He gave out a mix between a grunt and a moan as his face collided with the wooden floor below. “ _Kaffas_!”

A newly founded ringing was echoing through his head, insistent and overbearing. Gritting his teeth, he tried to push himself onto all fours, only to fall onto the deck again. He could hear shouting, but he couldn’t make out the words.

The ship took a deep dive, causing the elf to tumbling in the same direction. Immediately without considering what was happening, he covered his head in his arms. His movement came to an abrupt halt as he hit the bow. Pain erupted on the side of his head. Gasping, Alarion uncurled himself. A quick hand to his forehead came away red. As he stared as his palm, the red danced away, clearing in the plummeting rain.

A yell took his eyes away from his hand. He could make out a figure running at him in the blurry downpour. Who?

The figure was screaming, but the words were lost to either the wind or the ringing in his head.

He blinked quickly, vision briefly flattering as a blinding flash enveloped over his entire sight. The air felt heavier, but he managed to stand against the weight. The figure running at him was almost near. The wind was howling around him, pushing and pulling against him.

Alarion didn’t notice he had fallen until he hit the water.

If he had thought he was cold before, he clearly had no idea how cold he could truly be. Iciness bit at him, pulling him into its arctic embrace. He cried out, and only received a mouthful of salty water in return. Dear Maker! Which way was up!?

He tumbled helpless, nose burning as he was tossed around. He forced his eyes open to try and find the top. Eyes boiling with agony. Pushing through, he looked around what little he could to try and find any source of light, any at all! Nothingness. Darkness surrounded him. Maker, he was going to die.

A fear deeper than any he had felt yet cut straight to his heart. Panicking, he began to fail about, kicking and punching at the darkness.

For the briefest moment, he felt his foot breach the surface. A bone-chilling wind whipped at him before he could no longer hold it up.

Up! That way was up!

Gathering all the will he had remaining, Alarion flipped himself around. He kicked with all his might.

Penetrating the surface hurt far more than he would have ever cared to feel. But the air rushing into his mouth had never tasted so fair. Even with the pungent salt in his mouth and the air, Alarion doubted he had ever tasted something as delicious.

He began to scream, flailing his arms. But before he could do anymore, a wave washed over him and he went under again.

This really was it. He was dead.

Closing his eyes, Alarion let out a prayer to any higher being that they would give him the mercy of it being quick.

But still, he kicked and wiggled. He didn’t want to die! Maker, let him live! He wanted to live!

Something gripped his arm, holding so tightly that Alarion gave a gasp of pain, swallowing, even more, sea water. He struggled against it, but whatever it was held firm.

Before he realized what was happening, he was above the water again. He gagged and vomited a little before gulping down the air greedily.

The thing gripping at him pulled him close, crushing them against one another. Without hesitation, Alarion wrapped his arms around it tighter than a sailor’s knot.

“Hold on,  _amatus_!” A voice screamed in his ear.

“Dorian?” Alarion tried to yell back. Instead, all he managed to do was a cough violently.

One of the arms clutching him let go. Alarion could feel it waving behind him. An invisible force pushed at him, almost flinging him away. But the remaining arm holding him and Alarion’s own death grip kept him from doing so. For the briefest moment, the water shrunk to Alarion’s stomach. Immediately after, all feeling from his waist down vanished to be replaced with a frozen numbing.

Heavy panting could be heard in his right ear as the arm wrapped its way around his back.

Alarion looked around the best he could, though their embrace made it difficult to turn. From what he could see, he was surrounded by thick, thick ice. It was being pushed around in the water but showed no signs of weakening. It stemmed off of his own skin, from the lack of feeling in his back.

“Dorian?” His panic shout was only auditable over the wind with Dorian’s face being pressed against his.

“I have you,  _amatus_!” Dorian’s words were accompanied with a hand moving to the back of Alarion’s head. Fingers curled in his hair, holding him tighter. “I’m here and I have you!”

“Dorian…” Somehow. Somehow, Alarion could feel all his fears begin to fade. He clutched tighter to the human. Some way somehow, Dorian was going to fix this and save him.

He buried his head into Dorian’s neck and prayed it would happen quickly.

They bobbed up and down on their little ice raft, at times violently. But the ice held firm, even when the waves began to crash against it. And Alarion felt no fear. Dorian was here. H-how did he do that? How did Dorian make him feel like everything was going to be okay? He clung to Dorian as the lifeline he was, and Dorian’s grip stayed just as strong.

The waves continued. The ice kept them afloat.

He could feel the rope tied around Dorian’s chest against his own. So he could feel it being pulled. But he didn’t watch. He was facing the wrong way, but it was more than that. Dorian was here. Dorian was going to protect him. He would be okay.

A gasp escaped his lips as their raft hit the ship and the force made his head bang into Dorian’s.

“The ice!” Came a shout.

At once, Alarion felt the ice melt off of them. In his ear, Dorian’s ragged breathing became more of a pant. But he would be okay. They would both be okay.

There was no need to watch as his feet left the water and they were pulled upwards.

Shouts were surrounding them, but Alarion had his eyes shut closed and couldn’t see whose voice belong to whom. He could distinguish Isabela’s strong commanding tone raise above the rest as he felt his back hit against the wooden deck.

The moment the wood was below him, Alarion opened his eyes. He was staring at the dark gray clouds above (falling down and assaulting his face) while a barrage of worried faces swam around him before Isabela’s shouts made them run off. Just to his right, he could make out just a bit of Dorian’s dark black hair.

It only now occurred to him that Dorian had not loosened his grip any more than Alarion had despite the fact they were quite safe.

But before the thought could come to a full stop, Alarion began to shake violently before he felt his stomach convulse. Just as the heaving noises began to give even the slightest sound, Dorian had him released. Just as quickly, Dorian pushed him onto Alarion on his side.

The vomit came just as his cheek in the deck. It didn’t last long, and it was barely an afterthought compared to how badly he was shivering. Welling whimpering tears began to slide down his face at how utterly miserable he felt. He was so terribly, unbearable, all thought-consuming cold.

Void take it… he could feel the rain still pelting him, but it now longer felt cold against his skin.

Hands grabbed under his shoulders, forcing him upright. Despite the help, he felt his body was far too weak to stand.

His vision blinked black. A voice was desperately chanting his name.

Varric.

He forced his eyes open. He was being dragged. He had no idea by whom.

And suddenly he was an enclosed room.

Dorian was in front of him, leaning on Varric for support. “G-g-get his wet c-clothes off!”

Without responding, Varric let him go and began to grab at Alarion’s shirt.

Realizing what was happening, Alarion lifted his arms and his soaked top was pulled off despite the struggle it tried to put up. His shivering began even stronger than before. Somehow. How? How could he possibly be colder? At least down here they were havened from the wind.

Have…n

Something dry was draped around his shoulders. He looked, up, surprised, only to see Varric’s uncharacteristically terrified expression to greet him. That wasn’t right. Varric’s brows should not be allowed to dip that low.

As Alarion desperately grabbed at the warm whatever was around him, he looked over in time to see an equally shivering mage failing to remove his shirt.

“D-D-D…” his voice gave out before he could finish.

But Varric seemed to get the hint and helped him out. As he did, Varric gave out an unsure chuckle. “Heh, glad you’re wearing what Rivaini gave you instead of one with all your buckles.”

Dorian didn’t respond, likely because his shirt was stuck over his head. The moment he was free, a blanket materialized around him. Alarion forced his gaze up higher to see Cole standing there.

The lad was shaking. Maker, was there any one of them not?

“I’m scared,” Cole whispered. “We’re all scared.”

Alarion nodded, tightening his cocoon of dry warmth around his chest as the dwarf began to untie his lacing and pulling his pants off. They were easier than the shirt and soon the elf was left in nothing but his smallclothes and the blanket he was urgently trying to encompass himself into.

Across from him, Dorian was also stripped down and trying to warm up in a blanket.

His vision blinked and he saw black. Cole was hugging him. There was something warm being thrust into his hands. Looking down, he saw that he had been handed a cup of steaming water. Without hesitation, he gulped it down. The taste was heavenly compared to the vile and salty remaining bile in his mouth. And the heat burned his tongue and spread true warmth through his entire body.

He looked up just in time to see Dorian closing his eyes around another cup before steam began to emanate from it. He, too, drank deeply and shuddered as it went down.

A terrible thought occurred to Alarion. At once, the warm in his stomach dissipated. “L-lyr-rium,”

For a moment, Dorian continued to stare at the cup before glancing up at Alarion with a small smile on his face. He mumbled something under his breath, but Alarion couldn’t catch what.

Cole lamented at this side that there was no lyrium for Dorian while Varric made a joke, but Alarion heard none of the words. His ears were ringing anew and his teeth still chattering blocking out much besides the tone.

Between Varric and Cole, the two came to an agreement and they ran out of the room. Alarion watched them go, glimpsing only briefly at the storm outside before a door closed behind him.

‘Varric’s room.’ His mind supplied. ‘I’m in Varric’s room.’

He turned his attention back to Dorian. The man was shaking far too much. When their eyes met, Dorian gave out the most pathetic attempt at a smile around his clanking teeth. “A-Alarion-n? I-I hate t-to be pushy, b-but b-body he-heat is the b-best and quick-ckest way to regulate body heat.”

There wasn’t any room for discomfort or fear for the suggestion over the overbearing cold. Without hesitation, Alarion nodded and moved forward as much as his stiff muscles could allow.

Dorian met him halfway.

It was simultaneous the way they opened their cocoon of warmth and wrapped the other in them. Dorian’s arms pulled over his shoulders and hugging him close while Alarion’s hands snaked under his armpits and holding him tightly.

Both hands felt like ice, but the skin beneath burned.

It felt it only took a few seconds before Alarion’s shaking subsided and he was finally beginning to feel like he could be warm again.

Before he realized what was happening, he was sagging into Dorian’s embrace. It didn’t help that Dorian was gently running a hand up and down his back.

Suddenly, he was sobbing.

He was just so relieved. And happy. And grateful. A-and… and…

“I’m sorry!” He blubbered, clutching desperately to the man that saved his life. “I’m just so sorry!”

Alarion fell asleep to the sound of Dorian’s gently soothing ‘hushes’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Midoki for being my beta reader!
> 
> So, bad news guys. Life is going to be insane for a while and it'll be cutting into my fanfic writing time. In other words? Enjoy the early chapter and please forgive me if the next one takes a little while to come out.
> 
> EDIT! Oh hey! I forgot to mention. I don't normally listen to music when I write, but I actually listened to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bb4FMn-IWEY) on repeat for 58 minutes straight on accident while writing this.


	23. Chapter 23

He was falling and couldn’t see anything. It was a far more than distressing. It was blood pounding, adrenaline racing, full of panic.

Despite the urge to fling about, Alarion curled up into a ball, ducking his head into his arms to protect his head. There wasn’t much he could do but wait for the impact.

His bracing did little to dull the sharp pain that shot through his back. The roughness gave him an immediate headache. He couldn’t move his right arm now.

Gritting his teeth, Alarion buried his head into the rough sand below. In his mouth, he could taste nothing but bile and gritty dirt. Everything around him was still dark, but Alarion didn’t know if that was because his eyes were tight shut and being forcefully pressed into the sand or if it was because he was still surrounded by the pitch blackness.

Something cold was approaching him. The nearly tangible chill was pushing against him in waves. The iciness bit at his arms before enveloping his heart. As it did, he could feel his thoughts freeze over. The creeping feeling of cold clouding his mind.

All his fault. If he hadn’t had been so stupid. He was a parasite. Leeching off of people far better than him. Useless. Worse than useless. A burden. All his fault.

Why was he this way? Why couldn’t he just stop hurting those around him? Why did he have to make everyone’s lives worse?

“I’m sorry.” He whispered into the sand. “Maker, I am just so sorry.”

_I can help. I can make all your mistakes vanish. Make them forgive you._

“I-I…?”

_Let me in. I’ll make them forgive you._

Make them? Making anyone do anything would  _make_  him no better than Master Amladaris. H-he couldn’t do that. Not  _that_  on top of everything else.

“N-n-no.” Alarion whimpered into the sand. “Please. Leave me alone.”

 _Let me in. I’ll fix everything_.

“Please.” Alarion began to fully sob, unable to think over the cold. “Please, leave me alone.  _Please_.”

 _Let me_ in _!_

“Please!”

“ _Da’vhenan_!”

“Please.”

_Let me in!_

“Please…”

“ _Da’len_ , take a deep breath. Calm down.”

“All my fault,”

The cool began to subside quickly as a warmth, Alarion identified as a fire, began to erupt around him.

Shit! Master must be mad if he’s sending fireballs at him. Alarion gritted his teeth to wait for the flames to lick at him.

The pain didn’t come, but the warmth stayed. Surprised, Alarion managed to look up out of the sand. The flames surrounding him offered him a dim flickering glow. It illuminated a figure looming over him. Unable to see much of the figure beside their general size (thin, lanky). As Alarion began to look up to see their face, he heard an echoing whisper of,

“Wake up.”

Gasping, Alarion bolted upright. Wh-where was he? Wooden boards above him? The bed below him dipping and bobbing?

A tingle on the back of his neck that warned him of being watched sapped the last of the sleep out of him. Whipping around, he spotted a figure staring at him from a few feet away. Without thought, Alarion flinched and pulled his arms up to defend his face. When nothing happened and his mind finally caught up, he lowered them to spot Cole reaching out to hand him a glass of water.

“I’m sorry,” Cole said when Alarion slowly took the cup from his hands. “It was warm but it got colder when you were dreaming.”

Alarion began to shiver before he began to drink what he now noticed as water. It was lukewarm at best but it helped drown out the overall terrible bile taste in his mouth that he only now started to notice.

“Where am I?” His voice came out raspier than he had ever heard it be.

“Varric’s room on Admiral Captain Isabela’s ship,” Cole replied. “In Varric’s bed. You’re cold.”

Alarion’s shivering was becoming violent with his bare chest exposed. For some reason, he had been stripped down to his undergarments? Quickly, he pulled the blanket up desperately.

Cole wordless handed him a shirt that Alarion swiftly slipped over his head. The cotton was a little irritating, but it was  _warm_  like that fire.

Fire? What fire?

“What… happened?” His throat  _hurt_  and his body was  _sore_  and he was  _tired_  and  _cold_. Yet, he remembered fire?

“Falling, slipping, bobbing and plunging.” Cole murmured frantically. “Death and cold and gloom and ice. Give up the frantic fight. I want to live!”

Alarion felt his brows burrow a little before, gently, but quickly, tilting a little to the side. “Wah?” Before the night before came rushing to him. Whimpering, he curled up into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest.

Wordlessly still, Cole handed him another cup. Alarion drank down the water without hesitation. “I’m sorry.” Cole murmured, sounding like he was, actually, lamenting. “It isn’t warm either.”

They were silent for a moment as Alarion finished the water off and wrapped the blanket around himself well enough that his shivering was starting to subside.

“Wait?” Alarion rubbed an eye, staring at Cole with his remaining one. “Were you watching me sleep?”

“Yes. Are you mad at me?”

The idea was disconcerting and… creepy. When Cole’s sunken pale face glanced up at him, waiting for an answer, Alarion shivered for a different reason. Sometimes it looked like the lad was nothing more than skin and bones. Varric even admitted that the boy wasn’t fully human at one point. “I don’t… like it.”

“You didn’t want to wake up alone,” Cole whispered, looking down at the ground. “And I was worried.”

Alarion felt the first trickles of shame drip on him. Sure, Cole  _was_  creepy, but he meant well. It’s wasn’t his fault that Alarion was so uncomfortable with him. It was something Alarion had to get over.

“Dorian wanted to stay.”

“What?” Alarion’s thoughts were still on Cole but were abruptly brought to the moment at the mention of Dorian. The man that loves him. That saved his life. That man Alarion was the worst to. The one treated him terribly even  _after_  he realized he wasn’t a slave.

“Dorian. He wanted to stay. But he was scared too. But… not of me. Of you.”

Ah. Shit…

Alarion knew it. He had fucked up. He had fucked it all up. All his fault. He knew it. All his fault. If Dorian never wanted to talk to him, it would be well deserved.

Whatever the him with memories did to receive such devotion wouldn’t last now.

“Dorian worries. If you turn away now, it’d hurt more than before. So he’s scared.”

Quietly, Alarion rubbed his arms, frowning.  _I’m here. I’ll protect you. You needn’t worry._

Dorian saved him from his supposed master. Even when Alarion refused to listen, Dorian still showed so much patience. The kindness. And not once, never once did he let go of Alarion in that cold water he despised so much even though Alarion had forced a confession out of him.

Who could have Alarion possibly have been to deserve such devotion?

“His arms wrap around, tight and almost painful. The ice holds strong, but his grip even stronger. Never let go.”

Alarion was quiet for a long time. “Please stop reading my thoughts, Cole.”

“It’s not you. It’s both.”

After taking a moment to hug himself, Alarion sighed loudly. “You’re thinking about it wrong,” Cole told him firmly. “You think we hate you. But we  _don’t_! Dorian doesn’t. Varric doesn’t. I-I don’t.”

“Why not?” Alarion didn’t bother denying it, crossing his arms across his chest even tighter. “You should.”

“We want to help you. You’re our friend.”

Friend? No…

Quietly, Alarion wrapped the blanket around himself just a bit snugger. He had no way of putting what he was feeling into words. He didn’t know how.

Cole picked it up anyway. Speaking quickly, he murmured off, “Echoes, words, no,  _memories_. Hatred and loathing, fire in my stomach like the burns on my arms.

“Then cold, stillness, peace. The sea encompasses me the icy embrace of my first memory. Not, not first. Not real anymore. First memory is fire. But the water is so cold. But he’s warm. Warm in affection and not anger. Affection not meant for me. Nothing but fire, nothing but cold. His gray eyes search mine.” Suddenly, his voice dipped low and gruff. “ _I am not him and I’m sorry. I’m trying to remember you_.”

They were both quiet for a long time before Cole whispered, “You are my friend, Alarion. I want to help you.”

Unable to help it, Alarion shut his eyes and buried his head into his arms. He mumbled out, “I’m not. I’m so sorry.”

“Do you not want to be? I can’t make you forget me, but I can leave.”

“No. I… you… you said it yourself: I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Cole was quiet for a moment before saying, “You don’t remember me. And Varric told me that it wasn’t my fault. But you blame you, Dorian blames Dorian, Varric blames Varric, but they’re wrong. It’s not them, me, or you. None of us did this. It was the light.”

After that, Cole fidgeted with his hands. Before looking up at Alarion. “I don’t blame you for not remembering, Alarion. None of us do. Even if you don’t remember me, can I make new memories with you?”

Something  _warm_  blossomed in his chest, making tears spring to the edges of his eyes. For a moment, he struggled to find the words before he whispered, “Thank you.”

For a long moment, they were quiet before Alarion looked up. Gathering what little courage he had, he asked, hesitant, “What was I like, before?”

“Gentle. You always worried about me and others, wanting to help them. At times, the pressure of who you were and all the people counting on you would feel like it was crushing you; but you never stopped caring. You smiled because you were happy and you wanted good people to be happy as well. You truly cared. You were always so kind to me.” His eyes shut for a moment, but when they reopened, there were slight tears in there. “I was your friend. You are my friend. You are scared of me, at times, I know. B-but maybe… one day…” Cole shook his head. “I want to help you, Alarion. You always helped me, even when you didn’t need to. Even when it was inconvenient and made people annoyed and impatient. I can’t make you remember, b-but I can tell stories! Like Varric.”

“Cole…” Alarion closed his eyes. Shame and guilt were pooling and swirling in his stomach like ink in water. He hadn’t realized Cole knew he was scared of him in a way more than a basic instinctual fear of pain. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You care. That’s more than most people.”

“C-can we be friends again Cole?”

Cole was shaking his head before Alarion even finished his sentence. “You already are my friend. But I want to be yours again. We all do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that scene in Mulan where Mushu emerges from the smoke and screams, 'I LIVE!!'? I live guys :)
> 
> This chapter took longer than I expected it to take. I figured with my new job plus 2 signature essays I needed for college, I'd have near to no time to write Absence, and I was right. What I wasn't expecting were the protesting riots as the country I'm living in is dissolving into chaos. Plus I recently lost a bit of my soul to the amazingness that is Critical Role. Please send either Crit merch or help. One or the other.
> 
> In the meantime, a special shout out the to awesomeness that is Midoki for being my patient beta and thank you all for reading, kudoing, and commenting! :) You guys deserves cookies.
> 
> And in case it was too confusing, when Cole says, "First memory is fire" he isn't talking about the fire the "mysterious" ;P lanky figure in Alarion's dream casted, he's talking about how the first memory Alarion has is of hatred and loathing which burns. Hence: "Hatred and loathing, fire in my stomach like the burns on my arms."
> 
> P.S. Who _could_ that mysterious, thin figure, speaking Elvish, in Alarion's dream, from the Fade, be? Top notch mystery right here. :P


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I learned a new trick for those using a laptop. If you hold your cursor over the words in Elvish, a little box will pop up with the translation. Those on mobile or a tablet won't be able to see it, sorry. Translations are in the end notes if you're curious.

Alarion awoke with a smile on his face.

_Rain_! He remembered real  _rain_!

The platter against the wood… a wagon?  _Adahlen _ alive with the fresh smell that could only come with rain.  _Vhen’alas _ green and thriving. The air just crispy enough to sharpen the senses and give him the thrill of being alive.  _Arla_.

“Rain,” he murmured, still half-asleep. “ _Sulahn’nehn_.”

After a few moments of letting himself sway in his hammock, Alarion sat up slowly, staring at his spare shirt hung up by a hook. He had a dream, but he couldn’t remember what it was about. But it was a good one as far as he could tell. He was at peace.

But what was the dream about? Alarion rubbed his forehead. He remembered… white? Was he talking with something white?

Slowly, Alarion turned his body just right so he wouldn’t fall out of the hammock as he stood. Quietly, he changed his clothes and moved the curtains out of the way as he made his way past the few scattered sleeping crew to head up on the main deck.

Arriving, he spent a moment to enjoy the breeze on his face and the sun above. He gave a tentative smile as he passed a winking Isabela before knocking quietly on Varric’s cabin door. After waiting for a moment, he concluded that the dwarf was likely still sleeping being the late riser that he was. Not wanting to wake up, Alarion backed up and turned away.

When he passed Isabela again, he received another wink before he moved towards the bow. He liked this spot best on the boat. Just as Isabela said, it felt like true freedom when he was sailing with only the horizon in view.

After only having slavery for memories for so long, ‘freedom’ was a fresher breath of air than the constant gusts of wind whipping his face now.

He needed to enjoy it now while he could. According to Isabela and her crew, Val Royeaux would be in view in a few hours and they’d be docking in the morning.

Alarion shivered against the wind and the thought. There'd be a lot of people in a city that big. Being on the ship for two weeks (two weeks exactly by the time they dock), had got him used to being in close constant proximity to people, but it had been over a month, nearly two since Alarion had been in a crowd before.

But he won’t be alone. So he’d be okay.

Alarion took a deep breath, smiling slightly. He’d be okay. Varric, Cole, and Dorian would be there for him.

Besides, he apparently had a lot of friends just a day and a half ride out of the big city. Friends, he had been told, that were very excited to see him. People that had thought he was dead for a long time… people that Alarion had  _no_  clue as to who they are… people that would be expecting the old him.

People… more people for Alarion to disappoint.

He shuddered now for a different reason and stared ahead towards the horizon. It’d be okay. He’d be okay. 

Plus, he had his old journal to look forward to.  That would be… well, at least interesting.

Oh! And there was a library there too! There were so many books Alarion could read now. He wondered if Dorian would know some old ones he used to like to read. That way he would know they’d be good even before reading them.

New people? New books? New him?

Alarion grinned widely. This was  _exciting_  even if it was terrifying!

Footsteps sounded behind him. Alarion turned to spot Dorian approaching him, looking hesitant. At once, Alarion’s heart leaped against his chest. The mage had checked up on him yesterday after Cole fetched him, but hadn’t lingered long. He claimed that he was drained from the excess magic he used causing ‘a piercing headache that’d make a hangover jealous’. A part of Alarion wondered if he was using it as an excuse to keep Alarion away. But Dorian did look legitimately unwell.

In the end, Alarion concluded that Dorian was probably grateful for the excuse to stay away, but that didn’t lessen the genuine pain he had been feeling.

“Are you feeling better?” Alarion asked quickly before Dorian had a chance to speak.

Dorian visibly hesitated. Then smiled. “It’s of no concern, but thank you.”

“Good,” Alarion replied, hoping that was the right response. He was never quite sure when it came to this man.

There were only a few beats of silence before Alarion gulped and said, “I didn’t get a chance to say so yesterday; thank you for saving my life.”

Dorian eyes narrowed and his fists curled up at his side. “Damn bastard.” He murmured. “The stress you cause me will put me in an early grave.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Good.” Dorian nodded. “Then hopefully you’ll be more careful, yes?”

Alarion couldn’t help the smile that stretched across his face at Dorian’s poorly veiled concern. “I didn’t mean to have my rope cut you know.”

“I know.” Dorian sighed, shaking his head. “You just have a knack of terrible luck. Thankfully, it’s only overshadowed by your aptitude for surviving.”

After blinking a few times, Alarion also shook his head. “I wouldn’t have survived if you hadn’t jumped in after me.”

“True.” He mused. “I am simply that marvelous.”

“True,” Alarion replied in the same tone without thought. After a few seconds passed, he suddenly snapped his face towards Dorian’s. The man’s giant smirk only made his face grow warmer. Did he say that out loud?

“Don’t look so embarrassed,  _amatus_. You were always a man with excellent taste.”

Shaking his head violently, Alarion attempted to banish the red in his face through the movement. “I really just wanted to say thank you. That’s all.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Did, did Dorian believe him? He seemed so casual about the whole thing. Was that just bravo? Alarion couldn’t tell.

“Really, Dorian. I mean it.  _Ma serannas, ma’sa’serannas. Ma melava shala_.”

Dorian blinked at him a few times before his eyes widened. “You remembered Elvish?”

“Elvish?” Alarion furrowed his brows at him. Why and where did that come from out of nowhere? “I can’t speak Elvish. Just Common.”

After a few moments, Dorian grinned at him. “What did you just say? Just now?”

“That I don’t speak Elvish?”

“No,” he chuckled, “before that.”

“That I meant it? That I’m really grateful?”

“Well,  _amatus_ ,” Dorian mused, looking beyond smugly happy. “I hadn’t understood it (for the most part). You were speaking Elvish.”

“I was?” Alarion raised a hand to rub his forehead. “Are you sure?”

“You taught me very little Elvish, but I do remember a phrase. Want to try ‘ _andaran atish’an_ ’?”

“Hello,” Alarion replied back, confused. After a few moments, he blinked. “Wait. I understood that. And it wasn’t Common. Was that Elvish?”

Dorian’s grin grew even further. “Must still be up there in that head of yours. How fascinating.”

“B-but.” Alarion frowned. “How do I speak it?”

“You hadn’t seemed to recognize the little Elvish I used when talking about your  _vallaslin_. This appears to be a recent discovery.”

“No, I meant how do I speak some? This is Common right now, right?”

“Correct.”

“So, how do I switch? I can’t just… I don’t know. I hadn’t realized I was speaking Elvish until you pointed it out; and when you spoke Elvish it sounded different, but I still sort of recognized it as Common, even though I  _knew_  it wasn’t. Does that make sense?”

“You would not be the first man to forget they were speaking a different language until someone pointed it out. In fact, the very thing happened to me not long ago.”

“So… how do I speak it?”

“Practice, I’d wager. I could help if you’d like.”

Alarion blinked a few times before giving a small smile. “I’d like that,  _ma’arla_.”

The reaction was immediate. Dorian’s face went from smug contentment to open-mouthed horror. He took a step back away from Alarion, eyes widening.

Alarion watched in confused dismay as Dorian’s breathing turned haggard and tears welled, but did not fall. They were both silent, staring at each other in turmoil, one in worry and the other in agony.

Finally, Dorian whispered, “Wh-where did you hear…?”

“What did I do?” Alarion pleaded, barely noticing anything in his surroundings beside Dorian’s face in front of him. Now that the silence had been broken, Alarion couldn’t stop the flood of words. Maker, why did Alarion keep hurting this poor man? “Please! I’m sorry! I-I thought… I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry!”

“Alarion,”

“Please, Dorian. I’m so sorry.” He raised a hand, trying to stop the tears at the base. “I don’t know what I did but I’m sorry.”

“Alarion.”

“Please, forgive me. I just so sorry.”

“Alarion!”

The barking order made Alarion come out of where he was hiding behind his hands, tears still streaming. “I’m not mad, Alarion.”

“N-no,” Alarion agreed. “I hurt you.”

Dorian took a step forward, hands raised to show he meant no harm. “Please, just calm down.” He whispered, voice just as pleading.

When Dorian got within a foot from him, Alarion took a step back without thought. Dorian’s reaction was instantaneous. He froze in place. “I won’t come closer.” He vowed quietly. “Just… step away from the railing, would you?”

Alarion didn’t reply or comply. Instead, he hugged himself a moment before whispering, “What does that word mean?”

“ _Ma’arla_?” Dorian asked. When Alarion nodded, and mouthed the word to remember, Dorian’s body visibly tensed up. “D-do you not recognize it the same way you did ‘hello’?”

Alarion hesitated before both shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. “It… it means something important.” Carefully, he palmed his ribcage where the feeling laid. “I  _know_  it does. I can feel it.”

“It…” Dorian couldn’t seem to finish that thought. He took a deep breath of the ocean air before turning slowly towards the elf. “Forgive me, Alarion.” He whispered. “I… another time, yes?”

“O-of course Dorian.” Alarion nodded as well, not sure what else to do. Quietly, he wiped tears from his eyes before moving to his left to get around the mage. “I-I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yes.” Dorian agreed, sounding more like he was answering his own thoughts than Alarion. “Yes, later.”

Quickly and without looking back, Alarion moved passed Dorian and headed towards the familiar cabin. He didn’t spare Isabela a glance this time, too focused. When he arrived, he knocked quietly. It didn’t take long for the door to open.

“Hi there, Glowy. Need something? Er, you haven’t been crying, have you?”

After a moment of quiet, Alarion whispered, “Can I come in, Varric?”

Varric answered with a bob of his head and gestured inside. “My cramped little room on this ship is your shitty room.”

“Thanks, Varric.”

After shutting the door behind them, Varric settled onto his cot while Alarion sat cross-legged onto the wooden floor. “Alright, how can I help?”

He hesitated for only a moment before asking, “Have you heard the word ‘ _ma’arla_ ’ before?”

Varric eyes widened before he leaned back slightly. There was a brief pause before he replied. “Well, shit.”

Slightly panicked, he said, “ _Kaffas_! Is it that bad?”

“No, it–”

“Because Dorian looked like he wanted to fling himself overboard when I asked him.”

“Shit, you asked Sparkler?” Varric almost let out a groan. “Look, Glowy, it’s not a bad word, it’s…”

“Please, tell me Varric.” Alarion pleaded, after waiting a moment. “I was willing to wait until Dorian was comfortable enough to tell me, but it seemed to really hurt him. I want to know what I did so I don’t do it again.”

“Well,” he rubbed his hands together. “I only heard it a few times, and I don’t know what it means, but… Well, that was your pet name for Dorian. Some term of Elvhen endearment.”

The words clicked into his head. Leaning back with his eyes closed, he allowed the knowledge to flood through him, filling him up like he was a glass of water. “ _Ma’arla_ means ‘my home’.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He looked down at his hands, rubbing them nervously together. “I don’t know how I know, though.”

Varric gave him a small smile. “Nice choice of words there, Glowy.” Face becoming more serious, he asked, “Are you going to tell him you remember?”

“I… yes. I think I will.” He stood up. “I don’t want him mulling over it trying to figure out how to tell me all night. Thanks for explaining it to me, Varric.”

“Glad I could help.”

Once out of the door, he all but ran back onto the deck. He didn’t see Dorian at first. Instead of leaning over the side, he was curled up against the rail in the shadows of one of the railing wall. When Alarion approached, he let out a sigh of frustration. “When I said ‘later’, I meant more than a few minutes.”

Alarion shook his head before sitting down next to him. The railing felt steady against his back. Dorian was close enough that whenever the ship bobbed, their shoulders brushed together. “No need. I remember.”

“You–”

“You are  _ma’arla_.” Alarion continued. “I knew it meant something important.”

“Alarion, I–”

“‘ _Where you are, that is my home_.’ That’s what it means. That’s what I called you. You were my home.” Alarion brought his knees up to his chin, hugging himself. “You were my home, and I  _forgot_  you.”

He was quiet at first. When he finally spoke, his voice was gentle. “You didn’t choose to forget me, Alarion.”

Unable to handle it, Alarion shut his eyes. “But you must resent me for it.”

“No, no! Please don’t cry.” Dorian reached between them and gently wiped some of the tears away.

It was only when his hands brushed against him that Alarion had even noticed he had been crying at all. Now that they had been pointed out, he couldn’t stop them. What little control he had snapped, releasing a large sob that shook his body. Without warning, Dorian’s arms appeared around him, pulling him into his warm chest. At first, Alarion froze up in terror, body expecting some form of pain to follow. But, the moment Dorian’s smell filled his nose, he knew he was safe. He relaxed into the embrace, and, in response, Dorian held him tighter.

And they stayed like that, basking in the security of their embrace.

“Dorian?” Alarion whispered at one point. When Dorian hummed to show he heard, Alarion wrapped his arms around him just a bit tighter. “I-I really am  _so sorry_. Please, please forgive me for forgetting you. A-and treating you so terribly.”

Dorian’s reply was quick, warm, and firm. “Alarion. None of this is your fault.  _None_. You didn’t want this or choose this. You are not held accountable for any of it.”

But Alarion shook his head in the man’s chest. He was just saying that because he wanted Alarion to feel better. But Alarion knew the truth.

Dorian held him tighter than before. Minutes into the crushing embrace, he whispered, “Memories or not (hardship be damned!), I’m not going anywhere, Alarion. I’m going to be right. Here.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Midoki for being my beta reader!  
> Translations:  
> Adahlen=Forest  
> Vhen’alas=Land  
> Arla=Home  
> Sulahn’nehn=Rejoice or joy  
> Ma serannas, ma’sa’serannas. Ma melava shala=Thank you. My ultimate thanks. You protected me.
> 
> You guys know what's not fun? A hairline fracture in your right hand! While being right-handed! Happened on the 30th of December. I've come to the conclusion that 2016 wasn't done with me.


	25. Chapter 25

For the most part, Alarion seemed excited.

His mouth was twitching up, teeth gleaming through his lips. His eyes were wide as he leaned over the rail far enough that it made Dorian’s heart skip. It took all of Dorian’s self-control not to pull him away from the edge.

Still, he couldn’t help but grin at Alarion’s clear excitement. The way his eyes shimmered as they approached Val Royeaux. Though the sun had only just peaked over the horizon, the shimmering gold in the city was still quite a sight to see, and Alarion seemed intent on seeing it the best he could. The smile stretching across his face that grew at every moment.

“You should see Minrathous one day.”

The elf jumped (making Dorian’s heart quench as he came  _even closer_  to the edge of the ship). Thankfully, Alarion turned away from the railing as he faced him. “Minrathous?”

“Capital of Tevinter. Buildings thousands of years old still standing alongside its modern brethren. It’s twice the size of Val Royeaux.” As he said its name, he gestured at the sparkling city.

Alarion looked back to the city before shyly smiling at Dorian. “I’d like to see that. There’s a lot I’d like to see.”

“I can imagine.”

For a moment, Alarion said nothing as he turned back to lean on the railing. Then, so quietly Dorian was sure he wasn’t meant to hear, the elf whispered, “No, you can’t.”

While Dorian’s mind raced, debating on whether or not he should reply, he was saved the trouble as Varric strutted over. The dwarf yawned, stretched, and pointed towards their destination. “I’ll be so glad to be in a city again.”

“Does Kirkwall look like this?”

“Sure. Just instead of shining gold, we have chains.”

“What?”

Dorian snickered. “And the smell.”

“I was getting there. Yeah, and you need it to smell like the sewers mixed with fish and body odor. Then, rearrange things so the wealthy live at the top of the city and then it gets poorer as you go down. Finally, have about two hundred people ready to kill you at any given moment and you got home.”

“Oh.”

Dorian laughed. “It’s a bit of a shithole, really.”

“Hey now. That’s  _my_  shithole we’re talking about here.”

“I heard shithole.” They turned around to spot Isabela approaching them with a wide smile. “So either you’re talking about Kirkwall or you’ve never seen the shops they have here.”

Varric chuckled and turned back to her. “Thanks again for the ride, Rivaini. I’ll see you soon for another game of Wicked Grace, right?”

“Of course, Varric. Just… not so far inland.” She waved in the direction of the far-off mountains with a small huff in the word ‘inland’.

“You sure you want to head back to Kirkwall, now? Aveline is probably on a warpath.”

“Oh, you know I have to visit the Rose. They miss me there!”

While Varric chuckled at that, they heard a sniff and all three of them turned to find Alarion quietly crying and desperately trying not to.

Isabela was the first to recover. “Sweet thing! Why are you crying?”

Alarion shook his head, and tried to take a step back and seemed to finally notice how close to the edge he was. Thankfully if he fell now, it would be an easy swim to shore, even if he couldn’t remember how to swim.

“I… I’m just.” He shook his head again, then sniffled. “J-just. Thank you! Thank you for helping me, and being nice to me, and helping us.”

Dorian watched Isabela’s surprise face melt away into a fondness that Dorian identified as the look he saw Cullen give mabari puppies. “Sweet thing. We’ll meet again, I’m sure.”

Alarion only nodded a tried in vain to wipe away his tears. The sight made Dorian smile.

“Anyway,” Isabela turned to Varric. If  _her_  smile was a little wider than before, no one pointed it out. “This calls us even. You’ve dragged me to Tevinter and I’ve dragged you to Tevinter. Both times we did it for some major leader. We need better friends.”

“Come on, Rivaini! Mine involved a lot less death and Qunari. You still owe me at least a half a favor. There wasn’t even a swamp witch in my favor.”

“Even, Varric.” Isabela sang cheerfully. She looked them all over once again before giving a small half shrug, bracelets jingling as she did. “I have to overlook the docking. We’re only staying here long enough to get some supplies, then we’re leaving before we draw any unwanted attention. Hopefully, we’ll be gone before anyone is the wiser about the precious cargo.” At ‘precious’ she winked at Alarion before looking back at the rest of them. “Stay down, keep your hoods up, and wait for my crew to go first.”

Without another word, Isabela turned heel with a flare of grace as she strutted off, barking orders.

To his surprise, Dorian felt a strong pang sadness. Though he did not talk much to her while on her ship, Isabela did a lot for him and his  _amatus_  without once asking for anything in return. Only a year prior, he would’ve been infuriated. He would’ve only seen this as a debt he’d have hanging over him until he finally paid it off. Now, though, he glanced at Alarion (still wiping away tears) out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t have done this alone. Without Leliana, he would’ve never been safe the moment he found his elf. Without Varric, Alarion would’ve still been a terrified mess. And without Cole, Dorian would still be a pathetic mess.

They needed Isabela. How else were they honestly expecting to leave Tevinter without immediately being hunted by their enemies? It really was thanks to her, Varric, and Leliana they weren’t currently being hunted at all.

But what really struck Dorian in that moment was the fact that prior to him boarding her ship, Isabela had never met Alarion, and thus had no personal stake in his safety. She went all the way from Fereldan to Tevinter just to help someone she had never met just because a friend asked her to.

Instead of wondering how he was ever going to relieve himself of this debt, Dorian instead found himself hopeful that he could one day help Isabela out the same way she helped them.

Chuckling nearly silently, Dorian pulled up his hood and watched as Cole appeared out of near nowhere and began to murmur out loud as Alarion tugged uncomfortably on his hood.

“You alright there, Sparkler? Looking a little misty-eyed yourself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Varric. There’s salt in the air here.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Chuckling, Varric turned to the other two. “Let’s head down with the crew. We’re getting off at the same time as them. Glowy, we’re meeting up in the usual Inquisition meetup just outside of the city. One of our agents is going to be there with some supplies and horses for us. Don’t worry about not remembering where it’s at. Just letting you know the plan.”

“Keep your hood up and your hand hidden. Don’t stop at any shops and keep your head down.” Dorian added. “If someone comes up, let Varric and I do the talking. We’re not expecting any trouble (especially given how early it is), but the sooner we can get on the road to Skyhold, the better. Any questions?”

“…No.”

“Alright then. Follow me.”

After a few nods, the group did follow Varric towards the area where the crew that wasn’t busy docking stood around chatting.

They all could feel the tension in the air, but Cole was the only one to remark on it, quietly mumbling something that Dorian blocked out successfully.

Dorian kept glancing at Alarion whenever he felt he wouldn’t get caught. The elf was fidgeting with his shoulder pack and his gloves with special attention given to his left hand. From personal experience, Dorian knew that the Anchor could and had glowed bright enough that it was visible through the fabric, but that only happened when it was aggravated by a nearby Rift, or extremely high negative emotions, or pain.

Though anxious, Alarion wasn’t distressed enough for it to be flaring at the moment.

But it still  _bothered_ Dorian that he had nothing to say to reassure the clearly nervous man. Alarion was  _far_  better with words of comfort than Dorian was. Dorian had been better with the distractions. Dorian got nervous? Alarion knew exactly what to say. Alarion got nervous? Dorian knew what to do.

But now?

Dorian frowned, staring at his own open hand. He couldn’t reach out to him. He couldn’t squeeze his hand quick enough that no one else would notice. He couldn’t lay a hand on his shoulder and say something witty and sarcastic to make him smile.

And most of all, Dorian couldn’t kiss him. Before all this melodramatic shit, Dorian couldn’t have because there was a crowd and he couldn’t… but now? He would’ve done anything to hold that man in his arms, spectators be damned.

It was enough to make him hate past-Dorian even more for never realizing what he had. He should’ve taken  _every_  opportunity to be with Alarion. He should’ve held the man’s hand every time Alarion offered. He should’ve kissed that man silly more than Dorian’s minimum goal of once a day. He should’ve told him that he loved him more than air itself.

“His hand itches to reach out and hide all at once. Tongue feels heavy with words left unspoken. Blinding hindsight.”

Dorian did his best not to react. If he kept his cool, there was no reason for them suspect that Cole was reading his mind.

To his side, Alarion started to fumble with his shoulder pack again. Dorian wondered how many times Alarion checked to make sure it was there.

The thought made his heart ache, and he wasn’t quite sure why yet.

It’d come to him eventually.

Finally, blessedly  _finally_ , the bridge (or, the Gangplank as the crew around them called it) lowered and the men began to lumber off. They talked loudly amongst themselves as they headed towards various stores. Dorian quietly began forward only a few seconds after them with the three others at his side.

They kept mostly to the shadows, but not so obviously that it drew attention. They needed to be just out of sight enough for anyone looking for them but also blend in for a group of four people with hoods up to cover their faces.

Thankfully, the docks were not far from the gates. It was perhaps a seven-minute walk, but his heart seemed convinced to beat at least twice during every second during it. As they came upon the open market area, there were only a few merchants about, barely sparing them a glance as they set up their stalls. The few that were busy trying to sell their merchandise were currently being flooded by Isabela’s crew.

Dorian sent them a silent ‘thank you’ and hoped it’d get across somehow.

As they approached the gates, there were three Templars keeping watch. At first, Dorian’s gut twisted, knowing that spell blocked feeling all too well. The staff on his back felt just that much heavier with every step they took. But as they approached, their chests were glowing with the Chantry Eye and it was comforting in a way it had never been prior to Leliana taking the throne.

The youngest of the three reached for his hilt, but the other two immediately held up a hand. “These are the four we were told about, Bronn.”

“Oh.” He straightened his back and removed his hand from his sword. “My apologies. Maker be with you.”

Varric replied, but Dorian couldn’t hear it over the pounding in his head.

They quickly moved on, heading down the oh-so-familiar road. Every step just brought back droves of memories of a much happier time. The happiest time. Despite the death surrounding them at every turn, Dorian could only remember seeing his  _amatus’_  grinning face and bright eyes.

Maker…

“Don’t be sad, Dorian.” Cole told him. “It’s a happy echo.”

“Not now, Cole.”

The path headed straightened out before a three-way crossroad opened up. Varric and Dorian gestured Alarion to their left and they headed down the path quietly. After only walking for a few minutes, Varric said, “This way, Glowy.”

They led Alarion off the path down an easy to follow trail that opened led to a small clearing. It was perhaps five minutes off the road. Dorian remembered coming here only a few times in the past, mostly to get some news and supplies before finishing their trek back to Skyhold. Still, he remembered it being secluded enough not to draw much attention, but still open enough as to not draw suspicion.

Leliana’s idea, if memory served.

As they drew nearer, they could hear the sound of a few horses neighing just before they turned the last curl of the trail.

What awaited them was a familiar face standing next to three horses. At their approach, he looked up, brown eyes defined by high cheekbones and hair attended to in detail. His armor gleamed as he stepped near them. He gave them all a long look over before his eyes settled on Alarion. For a long time, no one spoke as Alarion squirmed under his confused stare.

“Krem,” Dorian said, breaking the silence. “It’s been a while. How are you?”

“Altus.” Krem nodded at him before giving Alarion a quick salute. “Your Worship. Chief mentioned that you’d be here. Thought it was a bad joke when he wouldn’t give me any details. Still, good to see you in one piece. You missed one hell of a funeral.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two letters. He handed both over to Dorian. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. Anyway, I have some errands to run in Val Royeaux. I’ll see you men later for drinks?”

“Looking forward to it,” Varric replied.

 Krem eyed Alarion once again. If he noticed that the usually talkative elf hadn’t spoken a word, he thankfully had the sense not to point it out. “It’s really good to see you, Your Worship. Maybe we can talk later.”

Giving all a salute, they bade their farewells and the man left them to head down the trail.

While Cole pet the horses and Varric explained to Alarion how they knew Krem, Dorian carefully tore open the first letter and read it.

 

_Dorian-_

_Hey it’s been a while. Glad to hear you guys are heading back to Skyhold. It’ll be good to have the group back together for drinks._

_Anyway, Red and Varric’s been keeping me updated on what we know about the Boss’ abduction and the whole memory-lost fade-shit thing. So you don’t have to tear your moustache out trying to figure out how to explain it to everyone. We know. Seeker’s excited to see you all, Josie’s probably going to cry, and Cullen’ll will get a little sulky, but he’s excited too._

_For everyone’s sake, though, try to keep the kid and Boss away from Sera. At least for now._

_See you in a few!_

_The Iron Bull_

 

“Well, that’s something.” Dorian said, handing the letter off to Varric.

As Varric began to read the letter with Alarion looking over his shoulder, Dorian tore into the second letter.

Before he even began to read it, he immediately noticed how much pressure there was on each word. In some spots, it seemed the quill was placed with so much force that it had snapped.

 

_Dorian-_

_Listen, Varric’s been keeping me updated about Alarion. I know everything he knows about all this. I have some thoughts on how this maybe happened, but I’ll wait ‘til we’re in person. It’s not that I don’t trust Krem. It’s just something best discussed face-to-face._

_Dorian… I know that many people are hurting and are infuriated about this, but I don’t think there’s anyone else as angry as me besides you. Tal-Vashoth rage and all that. Anyway, when you get to Skyhold, I want every detail. After you get Boss settled in, of course. He’s priority number one after all._

_We’ll get the bastard Magister for this. We’ll get the damn Qunari for this. And whoever the hell else dared to mess with Boss. I don’t care who I have to fight. They messed with the wrong elf and they’re  **goi ng to pa y.**_

_Bull_

Dorian grinned, briefly entertaining the idea of leaving on a ship with Bull and storming the gate of that bastard Amladaris’ estate. That brute’s blind rage slaughtering those that got in his way. Dorian slowly roasting the magister alive…

A laugh snapped him out of the lovely fantasy, however. He glanced up in time to see Alarion’s still lingering grin as the horse nuzzled him.

Later…

It… it had to be later.

_“Do this for the elf.”_

Hoping to repress some of his anger, Dorian shoved the letter into his pocket and took a quiet but deep breath.

Later.

Later…

Alarion took priority over everything.

 

o.O.o

 

As they stopped for the night, Dorian complained about the cold for, at least according to Varric, the seventeenth time.

Still, as he huddled around the fire (and ignored how wishful he was for a book to read), he found himself quietly smiling as he watched Alarion and Cole play in the snow together.

Cole let out a quiet laugh whenever Alarion managed to hit him with a snowball while Alarion ducked with a rogue’s agility and laughed whenever Cole managed to hit him back.

After Alarion did a particular difficult dodge, body twisting with speed enough that Dorian raised an eyebrow, Dorian found himself wondering about the elf’s combat expertise now that he had no memories. Surely muscle memory alone meant Alarion’s body knew how to hold a bow, but it was unlikely he’d have much skill at first, right?

Alarion was a beyond expert in archery. His talent was birthed from a naturality that could only be described as prodigious honed with years of hard work. His eye for his combatants’ weaknesses was enough to make any reasonable person nervous.

Not to mention he was quite decent with dual blades as well.

It disquieted Dorian quite a bit that something Alarion took so much well-deserved pride in had been ripped from him. He  _had_  hoped Sera would be willing to give him a few pointers, despite how badly of a teacher he’d assume her to be. But, not now. Bull wouldn’t have mentioned keeping Alarion away from her for no good reason.

Still. The elf now remembered how to read. Give him a few archery lessons and stuff him full of strawberries and he’d be acting like his old self in no time… right?

Archery though… There was a story about Alarion involving archery that caused him so. Much. Pain. Countless nightmares and terrible thoughts that stemmed from a single bad experience with his ability in archery. It was a story Dorian knew that, according to Alarion, no one had ever been told, ever.

Late one night as they were huddled together in the dark, Alarion’s slow and careful voice began to weave a tale for him. He told him how when he was younger, all his family would talk about was how good he was at archery. And when he was a young foolish boy he grew insecure.  _“If I wasn’t so talented, what good was I to them? So, I played it up more. Pretended to be arrogant of my skill until I actually became arrogant. Then I was a little brat that bragged all the time. Until…”_

Alarion had then begun to quietly cry and apologized to Dorian. Told him in a shaking voice that he had never told anyone about it, ever. And saying it out loud would make it too real. After Dorian’s reassurance that it was fine (there were, after all, things Dorian still wasn’t ready to talk about. Everyone had a story or two like that), Alarion eventually calmed down and promised that one day he’d tell him the story.

And now, Dorian would never know it.

The only hint that Dorian ever got about it was that it was directly related to what the fearlings in the Fade looked like to him. He knew it was a ‘her’ that, according to Alarion’s wild whispering while having a panic attack, he had ‘failed’.

But he never pushed because he knew that the moment Alarion was ready to say the words, Dorian would be there to listen.

Because Dorian wanted to help him. Maker only knows how badly he had wanted to help him through that terror that plagued his nightmares oh so often.

Shouldn’t the fact that Alarion would no longer be tormented by the memory mean more to Dorian than never knowing that story?

Then why didn’t it?

Frowning, Dorian crossed his arms, staring at the flames in front of him. His mirth from watching the two rogues play in the snow like children was gone now. Instead replaced in his mind with Alarion’s petrified expression. He had been so pale, wild, and shaky whenever those fearlings appeared. Never, not once, had he ever seen Alarion so scared until that moment in the markets. Not in the moments before he had to give a speech; not before heading off into battle; not even when staring down an archdemon.

Just with the Fearlings and those first few interactions with Dorian after losing his memories.

Alarion had promised to tell him one day. And Dorian knew he would. He never pushed, even though he had wanted to know for both curiosity sake, but mainly because he had wanted to be the one that helped Alarion through it.

Alarion had wanted to tell him. He wanted to tell him even when he had never told anyone that story before.

And now it was lost forever.

A story no one knew, and no one ever would.

Dorian prided himself in knowing the elf better than anyone else in the Inquisition. All of Thedas, according to Alarion, if you discounted his sister.

And yet?

Just how many stories about Alarion would Dorian now never know?

How many stories about himself would Alarion never know?

The realization would’ve made Dorian cry if he didn’t promptly stomp that pathetic urge down.

Swallowing, Dorian glanced back at the laughing rogues just in time to see Alarion receiving an entire face-full of snow from Cole.

_Stay happy_. Dorian commanded.  _Stay happy, damn you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the wonderful Midoki for being my beta :) you are awesome and deserve a cookie.
> 
> That story Dorian mentions? The that no one was ever told? Yeah... Alarion literally never spoke that story out loud before, nor did he ever write it down. Anyone that would know what happened is dead, thusly no one besides Alarion himself knows what happened. Alarion swore to himself he'd take it to the grave, but eventually found himself wanting to tell Dorian. Hence his promise to Dorian to tell him (in his mind, promises to Dorian outweighed any promise he made to himself). I'll go deeper into what exactly that story is in the fic I'll be posting soon. I just need to rewrite a little of it.
> 
> It's my birthday y'all! I hope you guys treat yourself to some unhealthy food in my honor with me.


	26. Chapter 26

His stomach was fluttering like leaves in the wind. He had reached a point where he could not make himself eat any more of the porridge in his hands out of fear that he may throw it up.

It… wasn’t fear. Alarion knew fear.

Yet, it wasn’t quite excitement either. On the one hand, Alarion was awestruck over everything around himself. The mountains were  _breathtaking_. Their utter majesty of beauty made Alarion feel both small and powerful. They were just as foreboding as they were inviting. Alarion wanted to explore them.

Snow was  _incredible_. It was both soft and hard. Cold and icy, biting into his fingers, but also fluffy and fun.

He liked the horses, a lot. He really wanted to spend more time with them.

Alarion was… trying not to think about that Sky-Place too much.

There were a  _lot_  of people there, and, according to everyone, he had a lot of friends that lived there as well.

How would that be like? Cole never outright mentioned he knew him for years, but he never denied either. Dorian tried to tell him, but Alarion hadn’t been ready to hear it. Varric… conveniently  _didn’t_  lie about it, but had clearly gone about their relationship as if they had just met.

But these people? They weren’t going to hide it. Alarion and they were both going in knowing years of friendship were between them despite the fact that the elf couldn’t remember them. That was a mindset Alarion had never experienced before and the dark looming unknown of it all was terrifying… but also exciting.

Void be damned, he was shaking again!

“Alarion,”

He jumped and turned to spot Cole staring at him from beneath his large hat. “It’s okay. They’re happy you’re alive, even if they don’t know it yet.”

Alarion didn’t respond. Instead, he glanced over at Varric and Dorian auguring near the horses. They sounded like they both agreed that Alarion needed to stay mostly hidden from the majority of the populous there, but whole-heartily disagreed on the best way to go about it. Alarion had been tuning them out for the most part.

To distract himself further, he turned back to Cole. “Are you excited to go back?”

“Yes.” The boy looked thrilled before turning bashful. “I didn’t say goodbye when I left. They didn’t know where I was. I hope they’re not mad.”

Alarion blinked. “They knew you went with Varric, right? Or… wait. When did Varric show up in Tevinter? I know Dorian lived there…”

“Dorian wrote a letter to Varric. A secret letter after he found you. And another letter. The left-hand reaches out with the right way. Protect and conceal. Must keep safe.

“Hands shake over the familiar handwriting on three separate letters. Why now? The words so specifically vague. Madness or hope that cannot be squashed. Story’s no good for heroes.”

Cole slapped his hands over his ears. “Pain, hurt,  _blame_. Pain so fresh it’s blinding white against his arresting purple. Loud and wrong! I have to help. I want to help. I need to help.

“I-I didn’t know you were alive, Alarion. I wanted to help. I came to Tevinter to help, and now I get to help you instead of missing you. It’s it wonderful?”

“Um, sure Cole.”

“I know I don’t always say it right. I’m sorry.”

Alarion paused then let out a very quiet chuckle that sounded more like a breath of air than anything else. “As if I say things right any better? You’re fine, Cole. I may not always understand you, but I like listening to you.”

“Do you? I’m glad. I will try.”

When they grew quiet, Alarion noticed he didn’t hear Varric and Dorian arguing in the background anymore. A glance in their direction revealed that Varric was tearing down a tent while Dorian was approaching.

Alarion’s heart slammed against his chest and he had to desperately remind himself that he had done nothing wrong and Dorian wasn’t glaring because he was upset with him.

Sure enough, Dorian let out a small sigh before giving him the best attempt of a smile. “Varric has worn me down; we’re too familiar and likely to be recognized if the four of us were to walk into Skyhold. Varric and I have quite the memorable faces given how famous we are. Alarion, despite being the most infamous of us all, your face is unlikely to be noticed. So…” He gritted his teeth for a moment. “We will be splitting up from here. You and Cole will go ahead while Varric and I will follow soon after.” He gave a pointed look in Varric’s direction. “ _Very_  soon after.”

Varric ignored him while Cole fidgeted. “Silent, sliding, sneaking. I can be quiet.”

Dorian looked back with another forced smile for Alarion. “We’re not going to be hiding from our friends, but from the main populous of Skyhold; they do not know you are alive. We’ll meet up around the barns and I’ll take you to be introduced to Cassandra, as well as the others if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Okay.”

“Cole will show you where the barn is at. You need not worry.”

“Okay.”

Dorian let out a burst sigh. “How are you doing, Alarion? Are you nervous?”

Alarion gulped. He didn’t want to make Dorian too concerned. “A bit.”

A raised eyebrow was the only sliver of worry Alarion could discern from his face. However, his voice was less concealed. “I see. Anything I can do?”

“No, I… I don’t think so. B-but thank you.”

For only the smallest moment, Alarion saw Dorian hand twitch and begin to reach out before he immediately thought the better of it. The body language was so subtle Alarion was grateful he noticed at all. “If I you think of something or have any questions, do let me know.”

“I will.”

“One distracts with actions while the other with words.” The two men jumped, both briefly forgetting Cole was there. “Two sides of the same coin that isn’t rigged. Can’t do both.”

Alarion gently frowned, pondering the words as he saw Dorian’s face redden at the tops of his cheeks. “None of that now, Cole. We have a mission and we need to see it through.”

“Yes. You don’t need to worry. I know where to go.”

“And you’ll stay mostly out of sight?”

“Yes. You are very worried. I’ll keep your promise for you.”

“Oh, very well. With the full knowledge that I am beginning to sound like a mothering hen, I would like to once again remind the two of you to be safe and that we’ll see you soon.”

For a moment, it looked like he wanted to do or say something more. Instead, he held out his hand. It took a moment of internal pep-talking, but slowly Alarion reached out and accepted the hand.

Dorian’s hands were very warm for someone that complained about being cold as often as he did. Due to the gloves that he was wearing, Alarion could not feel the callouses he knew to be there on either of their hands. Still, the warmth from the not-quite-a-handshake-but-not-hand-holding-either spread up to Alarion’s cheeks.

Perhaps the pair held on longer than needed, but Dorian quickly let go. “…See you soon then, Alarion.”

“Um, yeah. Soon.”

Dorian walked away towards Varric to help bring down the last of the campsite. Not wanting to linger, Alarion quickly started towards his horse with Cole at his heels.

As they mounted, Alarion’s face had not lost the warmth from before. Quietly, he urged his horse forward.

The pair rode in silence for a good while before Cole pointed forward. “Skyhold.”

Alarion looked up to see, in the distance, a sight he never knew could exist. He felt the breath leave his lungs as he stared. Silhouetted against the snowy mountain tops laid easily the biggest building Alarion had ever seen. It seemed to almost blend into the mountains, the stony structure only being contrasted by the white snow and the bright flags decorating it. For a long time, Alarion could do nothing but stare at its size, its awe-inspiring towers, and the majestic mountains that encompassed it.

“Wow.” The simple word did not contain the amount of wonder Alarion was feeling, but it had to do.

“Home,” Cole added. “Yours and mine and many others. They are excited to have you back.”

 

o.O.o

 

As they approached the gates, the guards posted there made Alarion squirm in his seat. He wondered if they recognized him, or if he should recognize them, or if they had never met before, or…

Out loud, he let out a very quiet sigh, attempting to school his thoughts before panic overtook him.

They passed through without a problem or even anyone looking at them twice. When they arrived into the courtyard, Alarion’s mouth dropped open. How could somewhere with so much snow have so much green? The grass below him was plentiful, the flowers decorated the long staircase in front of him, and there were many people around them, walking to and from chatting amongst themselves.

Without a word, Cole jumped down from his horse and Alarion quickly followed suit, still staring shamelessly at the sight in front of him. Gently, Cole grabbed the two reins and began to make his way to their right. With some effort, Alarion tore his eyes away. As they walked through the people, Alarion stuck very close to Cole, very desperately not wanting to get lost. The crowd seemed to be condensed around this area due to, from what Alarion could see, the marketplace that seemed to be set up there. Thankfully, they made their way through without issue and came onto the wooden building Alarion assumed to be the stables given the horses scattered about.

“There’s someone that wants to see you,” Cole told him after Alarion was done looking about the place. “He can smell you.”

“He… he can  _what_?”

Despite his misgivings that he smelled bad enough that his odor was identifiable, Alarion followed Cole and attempted to not let his anxiety overwhelm him.

After putting the horses into a closed off area that Alarion wished he knew the name for, Cole led him inside the stables and through the stalls. As they moved further in, Alarion’s fear began to rise as he heard loud stomps from one of the horses that seemed to get louder as they moved further in.

Finally, Cole stopped in front of one seemingly at random. Alarion’s heart jumped as he realized it was the loud one. Still, blind trust in Cole propelled him forward until he was face-to-face with a… not a horse given the majestic horns coming out the sides of his head. The white face neighed at him, stomped a foot, then began as forward as the door it was behind allowed him.

“He wants you to pet him,” Cole informed him.

But Alarion had already begun to reach forward before Cole and finished talking. The not-horse nuzzled his hand affectionately, warm skin brushing against him.

“Hart,” Alarion realized, blinking as a small smile began to inch across his face. “You’re not a horse, you’re a hart.”

“He’s  _your_  hart,” Cole told him. “He was a gift from your family. You named him ‘Lathy’. He reminded you that you still belonged to your clan.”

“Lathy.” Alarion’s smile grew as he began to pet the hart in earnest. The hart responded in kind, snout nestling into his neck as Alarion reached forward and hugged him.

As a warmth spread into his chest, Alarion eventually pulled back as he blinked back tears of joy. “I’m so glad to meet you again. Thank you, Cole, for bring me here.”

“I’m glad I helped.”

After a few moments of petting, Alarion froze as Cole’s words crept over him. How… how had he not asked about…? Guilt and dread and fear tempted to swallow him as Alarion whispered, “C-Cole?”

“Yes?”

“Do… Do I have a family?”

“Yes.”

Alarion shut his eyes and buried his face in his hands. Ignore the rest of the world, Alarion collapsed onto the ground, not caring to what he might be sitting in.

Some slaves had families, but it was always a thing that Alarion feared. Families could be torn apart. Families could have members that were killed or worse. They were a weakness that could be exploited just as easily as they were pillars of support. Whenever Alarion thought of families, he was always torn between being grateful he didn’t have one and deeply, horribly, grieved that he would never have one.

Yet since he learned that he was not, in fact, a slave, Alarion had, not until now, thought about asking about his family. How could he not have? He didn’t deserve one when it took him this long to even ask about them.

“No, no, no, no.” Cole murmured. “I made it worse. Alarion, I’m sorry. I didn’t think coming here would upset you.”

Alarion, for a long time, did not emerge from his buried head. Finally, he looked up at Cole. “Tell me about them? Please?”

“The words come out as screams until the words won’t come at all.  _How can I speak if he’s not here to listen?_

“Flowing hair envelopes me like his hugs did before his body went cold. People are looking. Cannot bring myself to stand.

“Fingers burn as the arms do. Little Heart’s lessons stick into my mind until I can climb them out. Which is the truth and which is the lie?

“Two hands held together while two others dig at the ground. The  _shemlens_ wanted to burn the body, but we refused to submit. A big strong oak like the ones he used to climb. May he finally find the peace we never shall.”

Alarion went back to burying his face in his hands. He stayed down and silent, barely aware of Lathy’s nose nuzzling the top of his head nor Cole silently watching over him.

Many minutes past until Cole spoke again. “They thought you were dead. They were very happy when they learned you aren’t.”

“That’s… something at least.” Alarion glanced up at the wooden boards above. No one spoke for a few minutes until Alarion whispered, “I have a family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Sorry for going so MIA. Life gave me a new one and my mental health had to come first. Glad I'm back to writing, though. If you want more info, I'm willing to talk about it if you PM me on my Tumblr. Promise that I haven't abandoned this nor will I ever. Serious thanks to anyone that stuck around through that unexpected hiatus. Love you guys!


	27. Chapter 27

Alarion sat on the side of the barn, cast as well as cooled by the shade above. He wasn’t sure exactly how long he had sat curled up with his face in his knees, but he knew that Cole had not yet left his side.

Though he heard someone approaching, he did not look up. If was anyone other than Varric or Dorian, Cole would’ve said something.

No one spoke until a very softly spoken Varric asked, “Shit. Did something happen?”

Alarion shrugged but did not look up. After a moment, Cole answered somewhere to his right. “Thoughts too sad to think. Words not meaning enough. Fleeting, fleeing, fluttering thoughts. Never asked. Don’t deserve. Not after never asking.”

A sigh. “Asked what, Kid?”

“I have a family, Varric.” He whispered, barely loud enough for the dwarf to hear.

“Your family? Yeah. You have a big one. I don’t know a ton of stories about them, but you talked about them enough that I know a decent amount. Want to hear about them?”

He nodded against his knees.

“I’ll tell you what I know. I only met them briefly.” He slowly sat down in the shade next to him. “Your mother is a small woman, likely where you get your size from. I didn’t really get to talk to her much, but she was soft-spoken, a great cook, and loves you a great deal. While I didn’t get to meet your father, I know his name is Feyeln, because that’s your middle name. You also have three siblings, all younger; two sisters and a brother. I met your two sisters. One’s a mage and the younger one is a quiet hunter who uses dual daggers. The younger of the two came with me when you went missing. She was the one that found the scene of slaughtered slavers with, supposedly, you with them. Your siblings love you quite a lot.” Varric let out a sigh. “Not something to shrug off. Most people aren’t so lucky, trust me.”

After a long moment, Alarion looked up, quietly hoping Varric won’t mention the tears. “Do… do they know I’m alive?”

“Dorian wrote to them personally the moment we had a secure way to send the message. They know everything.”

Alarion let out a sigh and buried his face into his knees again.

“Would you want to see them? Last I heard, a couple people from your clan were coming to Skyhold. But if you aren’t up to it, that’s totally fine and understanda–”

“I want to see them.” Alarion interrupted, snapping his gaze to the dwarf. “When they arrive.”

“Alright, Glowy,” Varric smiled at him. “I can do that.”

Wiping away the remanent of tears, Alarion decided to change the subject. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Sometimes you call me ‘Glowy’; why is that?”

He chuckled. “It’s just a nickname. Don’t worry about it.”

“Why ‘Glowy’, though?”

“I don’t normally give out the reasons, but for you, I’ll make an exception.” Smiling, he gestured at the air. “Remember when I told you about Anders and Fenris?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, that would make you my  _third_  friend who can glow. Yet, out of all of them, you’re the only one that has a glowing personality. That’s why you’re Glowy.”

“Huh.” Despite himself, Alarion felt the smallest of smiles curl across his lips. “That’s really sweet of you, Varric.”

“Don’t go spreading that around, now! I have a reputation to keep.”

Chuckling, Alarion felt his curiosity begin to boil. “Do I have any other nicknames?”

“Oh sure. You remember Iron Bull from the letter? He likes to call you ‘Boss’. I’ve heard elves call you some Elven nickname that I have no idea how to pronounce. Buttercup – sorry,  _Sera_  – likes to call you ‘Dots’ after the tattoos on your skin.”

“My vallaslin,” Alarion said, more as an echo of thought than a correction.

“Yeah, those. Anyway, people also call you by any string of your title. Inquisitor or Herald or whatever. The last person I can think of is Dorian… and you know what he calls you.”

 _Amatus_.

 _Beloved_.

Desperate for a change in the subject so his thoughts won’t start to spiral, Alarion said, “Wh-where is Dorian?”

“Not a worry, Glowy,” Varric said, quickly. “We ran into Tiny – er, Iron Bull – at the entrance. He wanted an update and to share some information. One of us needed to stay behind and the other needed to give you a tour since the Seeker’s stuck with some nobles.” He grinned now. “Figured the storyteller could give you a better tour than the Tevinter  _altus_. Plus, if you keep your mark hidden and your face down, I can talk our way out of pretty much any encounters. If you’re up to it, of course.”

Nodding, Alarion stood and dusted the dirt off of his behind. He didn’t bother asking what information Varric was talking about. Gulping, he asked, “Maybe not right away, b-but one day… can I learn everything you guys know about my memory loss too?”

“Of course. Whenever you’re ready. Sound good?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his hands together. “That sounds good. Wait! Where’s Cole?”

A frantic glance about revealed no familiar lad in rags.

“Don’t worry, Glowy. The Kid always shows up whenever you need him. It’s just his nature to disappear without a word.”

Nodding, Alarion attempted to calm his breathing and racing heart. It took a great deal of self-control not to demand that the lad returned and never leave. It wasn’t his place. It was childish to even think it. It wasn’t fair to Cole.

As if sensing his thoughts, Varric said, “Trust me, the Kid’s around. He never goes too far.”

“Al-alright.”

“You want to start the tour?”

“Alright.”

“If you don’t want to?”

“No. Sorry. I want to.”

Chuckling through his words, Varric gestured him forward, “Don’t apologize to me, Glowy. You got nothing to be sorry for. Anyway, here we are at the stables. Your horse or something is right over there.”

“Lathy’s a Hart,” Alarion grumbled.

Throwing his head back, he said, “Ha! That sounds just like your old self! I take it Cole showed you him?”

“Yeah.”

“So, the stables are where Blackwall, also known as Thom Rainer, liked to reside.”

“And he’s the Grey Warden friend, right?”

For some reason, Varric chuckled. “Well,  _now_  yes.”

“They stop things called ‘Blights’.”

“Yup. Real heroes them. Thom’s a good one.”

“Where is he now?”

“Off with the wardens somewhere. Anyway, let’s move the tour to the battlements where we can see all of Skyhold, huh?”

“Okay.”

Diligently, Alarion followed Varric out of the shade of the stables.

They headed towards what was perhaps the largest staircase Alarion had ever seen. It seemed to stretch to the clouds, stopped only by the wall they connected to. Though it made his heart hammer a little, Alarion gulped and followed in Varric’s footsteps. The stone felt completely solid beneath the shoes Dorian had given him. That allowed a small sigh of relief to escape his lips.

“Not the biggest fan of stairs, myself,” Varric told him. “Even in Kirkwall. I prefer Lowtown.”

“That’s where the Hanged Man is.”

“Yup. Good memory, Glowy.”

The twilight in Varric’s eyes meant he was joking, not mocking him. This made Alarion laugh more than anything else.

Once they finished their trek to the top, Alarion was out of breath for far more than the exercise. The view was… was… beyond words. He could see a  _sea_  from here. But not water. Of snow, rocks, and peaks. He could see very little marks of civilization, nearly all of it being swallowed up by nature in all of its untamable glory. Without realizing what he was doing, he ran to the other end of the battlement and looked down. He was  _so_  high up! The guards below looked smaller than his hand!

He easily ripped his eyes away from that to stare directly ahead of the mountains in front of him. They… they were  _everything_.

“The view is something.”

“It’s  _amazing_.”

Varric chuckled. “A little cold and nature-y for my tastes. But you always loved this kind of shit.”

“Still do, I guess,” Alarion replied, smiling at him.

“Yup,” Varric’s grin grew. “Still do.”

Pointing, he asked, “Is that the road we came up on?”

“Yup.”

“Damn. It’s so,” he struggled to find the right adjective and just went with, “ _small_. And my breath!” He took a deep one for emphasis. “It tastes fresh!”

“I swear if I didn’t know you came from the Free Marches, I’d just assume you were born in this castle.”

With some effort, he looked away from that side and moved to the other. From there, he could the courtyard they had entered into; the marketplace somehow seemed busier from this height; and the stairs in the courtyard led up to a secondary courtyard. He couldn’t make out much more from this angle, though.

“We’re going to head this way.” Varric pointed further down the battlements. “We’re going to be passing through Curly’s room. If he’s in, I’ll make sure to introduce you guys.”

“And he’s?”

“The commander of your army. Also, you guys loved to play chess together.”

“Um,”  _‘Take a deep breath, Alarion. Varric likes it when you ask questions. It’s okay to ask.’_  “What’s chess?”

“A strategy board game. I’ll teach you if you want. Or Curly can. Either way.”

“Okay.”

They walked through a couple doors, passed a few guards until they came across a door that Varric knocked on before opening. While he did, Alarion glanced toward his right and spotted another road leading to one of the parts of the castle. But he turned his attention back to the door as Varric opened it with a, “Curly? You in here?”

Glancing about the room above Varric’s head revealed a ladder, a desk covered in paper, a plush rug, and a window that cast the room in a warm glow.

“Huh,” Varric said, stepping inside. “He’s usually here. Oh well. I’ll make sure to reintroduce you two soon.”

Not sure if he should feel disappointed or relieved, Alarion replied, “Okay.”

They walked through and continued on their tour.

“So, there’s the tavern ‘The Herald’s Rest’. That’s the Kid’s favorite hangout, Sera’s room, and where you’ll usually find – uh, something wrong?”

With a shaking finger, Alarion pointed towards the base of the steps that lead to the entrance of the castle. There, even from the distance and height they were at, was a statue that was beyond a doubt, a figurine of a familiar elf dramatically standing in a way that the beginning to set sun hit its face directly. Flowers littered its feet near a plaque that Alarion had no hope of reading from here.

“Th-that’s…?”

“Um, yeah.” Varric coughed before rubbing the back of his head. “It’s, uh, your memorial. Put up for your funeral. Your family refused to let the humans have your, uh, body. They wanted you buried in the proper Dalish way and the Inquisition agreed. So, we put up a statue here instead of keeping your ashes around in an urn.”

“The one they thought was me?”

“Yes. Whoever killed those slavers had a near doppelganger of you. Same tattoos, facial scars, size, eye color, hair, you name it. I don’t know how they found your twin, but it was convincing enough to fool both me and your entire clan.”

Alarion didn’t say anything. He just stared at the statue. Finally, “So that stranger? He’s… buried in  _my_  grave.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s,” he raised a hand to his forehead. “V-very strange to think about.”

“I can imagine.”

Shaking his head, Alarion stepped back from the edge. “Let’s just move on.”

“Right behind you.”

Varric continued to point out and talk about what was around them, but Alarion didn’t really hear the words. He just stared at what was ever pointed out to him but didn’t really see them either. He was checked out.

Somewhere a mostly decomposed body was buried under the soft soil. Once it looked so much like him that no one, not even his family that he just learned of, could recognize it as a fake. No one believed him to be alive. No one looked for him while he was under a tree near Wycome. No one that knew him was there in Tevinter to save him from the ocean just outside of Sehron. No one was there to save him from the beatings he earned at the hand of his false master. That  _bastard_. That horrible, horrible man that wanted to torture him for reasons Alarion could not understand.

Tears began to stream down his cheeks, but he didn’t bother to wipe them.

No one came from him. Because they all thought he was dead.

_“Why didn’t you tell me you were alive?”_

He hadn’t had known he was dead.

“Hey Glowy,” Varric very gently placed a hand near him and waited to see if Alarion turned away before softly placing a hand on his arm. “C’mon. We don’t have to continue this tour. Let’s just get you to your room.”

He nodded, unable to know what else to say. Thankfully, Varric understood and began to take him down the battlement stairs and into what looked to be a garden area. From there, he took him to some stairs that led up towards some rooms. But Alarion wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. Trusting Varric enough to know the man would take him where he needed to be. Trust. Safety.

Dorian.

Dorian had found him.

Dorian hadn’t even been looking for him, but he had found him anyway.

Because somehow, even in a sea of people, he had seen a glimpse of a face and staked everything on it. He chased him down. Grabbed him by the shoulder. Held him as he held back tears of joy.

Because he cared.

Still cared.

Why did he still care?

“Right here, Glowy.” Varric gestured to the final door on the line of rooms. “My room is two doors down while Sparkler’s room is right next to yours. If you need anything, we’re only a door away. You want to be alone for a bit, or would you like some company?”

Alarion shook his head and gave Varric an apologetic look. Getting his meaning, Varric nodded and took a step back. “Take all the time you need. And, if you need me, I’ll just be right over there in my room.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Not a problem at all, Glowy.”

As Varric gave him one last look of masked concern, he walked off leaving Alarion alone. Desperate for a lack of interaction, Alarion grabbed the handle and gave it a small push. Inside revealed a simply furnished room. A bed with a luscious comforter, a wooden desk with a candle at the ready, a dresser completely devoid of dust, and a warm-red rug in the middle of the room. Alarion took only a step inside before he felt himself become frozen.

The walls were staring at him. The window was shrinking. Somehow, the bed was rapidly coming closer.

Panting heavily, he ran out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.

Racing to the railing, he leaned over it, desperate for air. After a number of regulated breathes, he managed to slow down enough that he no longer felt light headed. Heart still pounding against his ribcage, he decided that perhaps a distraction would be ideal.

A glance down revealed a full garden. What his mind informed him of healing herbs (though he didn’t know their names) sprinkled throughout the grass, flowers, and color-fading trees. The sight was truly something that Alarion had never had the pleasure to witness before. There was something so… perhaps rustic was the word? Ma – Amladaris’ garden was, well, ludicrous. Alarion had always thought so. The plants were trimmed in a way that looked ridiculous up close but designed to look more appealing to the person on their way into the estate. The garden that was made to be walked through, was  _designed_  to look rich. It was all so unauthentic.

But this? This garden looked untamed. For once, Alarion had the ability to see what a garden could look like if you had people and nature coexisting. It was planned  _around_  nature. That alone was incredible to him.

Glad to have something to stare at, Alarion glanced around the open area before he started to notice the people tending to the place. A few glanced up during their work and made eye-contact with him.

Immediately, Alarion could hear the warnings.  _Keep your head down. Don’t let anyone see you. The main populous don’t know that you’ve survived._

He stepped away from the railing, feeling the weight of the eyes that saw him.

_They don’t know you’ve survived._

_Because you were dead._

_You were dead._

_They mourned you. Loved you. Cared about you._ Buried _you._

 _And you can’t even remember them_.

Shutting his eyes, Alarion raised his wrists to his temples, pressing as hard as he could without hurting himself. Anything to stop the words.

_They’ll meet you again and they’ll realize exactly what you’ve realized but won’t admit to yourself._

_You’re not the one they miss._

_You’ll never be him._

_You stole his life while he’s buried._

_All these friends you’re about to meet are going to be expecting_ him _!_

 _You’ll_ never _be_ him _!_

“ _Amatus_?”

That word jarred him out of his mind. Blinking to clear his vision, Alarion saw Dorian standing only a few feet away. His concern so poorly hidden on his face. A hand outstretched as if to reach him from that distance.

‘ _Amatus_ ’ he called him.

 _Amatus_.

That word was not meant for him. It was for the one that would look at Dorian and call him  _ma’arla_. It was for the one that, by all accounts, loved Dorian very much.

The one Dorian loved back.

_You’ll never be him._

“No,” Alarion whispered, taking a step back. Somehow, he knew those words would be spoken out loud by Dorian one day. One day he’d realize. And when that day came, why would they need Alarion around anymore?

They won’t. He’d be gone. Nuisance. Unwanted. Idiot.

Slave.

Unable to look at Dorian’s concern for someone wearing his face for a moment longer, Alarion turned around. There was nowhere to go.

But, apparently, his body didn’t understand that logic.

Before he could fully comprehend what he was doing, Alarion was on the other side of the railing with his feet planted fully on the roof tiles. The cry of alarm behind him sounded like a war horn. It propelled Alarion to run forward.

He leaped over the stone barrier blocking the path to the battlements. Feet landing squarely onto the stone below, he took off running as fast as his legs could go. Up. Up further. Keep going.

Somehow, his mind turned off.

Somehow, his thoughts stopped.

Nothing existed but the path in front of him, the burning of his legs, and that swooping wind in his chest that reminded him of the bow of Isabela’s ship.

Isabela’s face grinned at him, _“The wind whipping at your hair? No limits? True freedom.”_

And with each step and leap, Alarion understood what she meant more and more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a very sad one to write. The thought that Alarion wasn't the same person and likely would never be again has been bubbling in the back of his head for a while now. It started to surface around the time he got a confession out of Dorian (shown a bit in Chapter 19 and 20). And in Chapter 23, while talking with Cole, it came to the surface. But with everything going on, it really came up now. He's trying to ignore it, but it won't go away.
> 
> Besides, not too insane in imagine Dorian saying that to him. Especially since you consider the fact that Dorian said pretty much exactly that in Chapter 7 and 18; AND Varric said something to the effect to Isabela in Chapter 17.
> 
>    
> Moreover, even with memories, Alarion was constantly fearing that he was being an unwanted burden. Mind always nagging at him that one day when he would no longer be useful, he'd be thrown away. After all, they only want him around because of the anchor and his skill with a bow... right? Just like his clan.
> 
> ...My poor elf baby needs a hug, guys. He's always been convinced he's a burden.
> 
> PS: Happy Halloween!! :D


	28. Chapter 28

Door. Stones. Feet in front of each other. Mountains. Wind. Fresh air. Sundown.

The sun had set far more sooner than Alarion had realized. But he kept running. At some point, he should’ve gotten tired, but he hadn’t yet. Each step felt like his very soul was flying. He couldn’t,  _wasn’t_  thinking. Somehow, everything was okay. Nothing was wrong. He was just running, leaping,  _flying_. Pure freedom.

He reached the door Varric had led them through earlier. He gave it a yank before his mind reminded him that it was someone’s room. The thought froze him, feeling his sweat drip down his back. His mind only had the briefest thought that wondered if he was still not in before he felt his entire body screamed at him to escape.

At the sound of the door opening, a man dressed in what looked like feathers or a cat jolted towards him, hand grabbing the sword at his side. The candlelight flickered across his face, giving Alarion full view as his expression went from intense readiness before blinking in surprise; until his eyes slowly widened in realization.

Alarion’s heart slammed against his chest. His sweat grew cold. They just stared at each other for a long while until the man ran a scratched the back of his head. “Sweet Maker. You really are alive.”

There were no words to respond. Alarion was completely frozen in place.

“Uh,” he closed his eyes, raising two hands up with a sign of no harm. “I, uh… you don’t look ready to talk. Do you know who I am?”

Alarion nodded, then gulped. “You’re Curly, right?”

For some reason, that made him laugh. “Cullen, actually. My name is Cullen Rutherford. Don’t worry. I know you don’t remember me. It’s, uh, well, really,  _really_  great to see you alive. Do you need me for something?”

Gulping again, he shook his head.

“Well, alright.” He scratched the back of his head again. “Uh, if you don’t want to talk to me right now,” he sighed, “that’s fine.”

Alarion nodded, then took a step back.

“Does anyone know where you are?”

He shook his head.

“Do you want me to keep this quiet?”

He nodded again.

“Yes Inquis– uh, Lavellan. Wait,  _Alarion_.”

He took another step back. Slowly, he turned away before hesitation stilled his step. This ‘Cullen’ was his friend. Even if Alarion didn’t remember him, he still had been kind and understanding.

Maybe it was as Cole said. They were still his friends. And they wanted to be his again.

He gulped again, desperately trying to get himself to speak until he finally whispered, “Cullen?”

He could do it.  _He could do it_. Just  _ask_!

“Would… would you teach me, um, chess?”

While he didn’t dare turn around to see his expression. But, even still, he could hear the clear relief in his sigh. And, if he didn’t know any better, the man sounded either close to tears or was crying. “Yes. Maker, yes. I’d like that. A lot.”

“Th… I… thank you.”

Without waiting, Alarion turned and began to run again. His mood felt significantly lighter, made only better by each step and each jump.

His legs were shaking, but he kept going.

Just one more step. One more running leap. One more flying through the air. Just one more and Alarion was sure the feeling would stick.

His eyes focused on the only light he could see; the tavern in front of him.

For some reason, he felt no fear as his feet just began to take off. He jumped without a thought, the flying feeling just like being free. He could do this. His feelings  _would_  stick.

With a grunt, he landed roughly on the tiles, pausing only long enough to ensure that it supported his weight. Nodding, he rose and began to run to the top, convinced he needed to see the view from the top of the… tavern? Inn?

Bare feet padding across the rough shingles, the lightest of sounds. His breathing was heavy, panting into the silent darkness. But despite the groaning of his muscles, his run ended as he came to the top the roof.

Instead of some specular view taking his breath away (further than it already was), Alarion instead let out a yelp and nearly fell as a voice snarled at him in the night.

“Oh, piss off and find yer own roof!”

His eyes adjusted quickly, allowing him to spot a small blond-haired elf just in time to see her turn around. “I said, piss off! Do you got shit in…” her voice trailed off as her gaze lingered on him.

Alarion’s mouth attempted to move a few times before the words, “Why are you on the roof?” came out instead of, “Who are you?”

“Oh piss!” Her body crutched up into a tense ball, looking as though she was ready to jump. “Shit, crap, fuck, shitballs, fuck, shite, arse, crap! You’re him, aren’t you? Shit, shite, shitty  _shite_!”

Alarion took a step back, not sure how he managed to scare this girl into a floundering mess of curses, but he didn’t mean to. “I’m sorry!”

“Shite, arse, crap, fuck!” The elf began to violently shake her head. “You sound like him too! But you’re friggin’ not! Dots’s dead. You’re dead. But then you’re not! But you’re not Dots! Shite!”

“Dots?”

“Pissballs! Get the fuck away from me!” Without a glance back, the girl let out a snarl that sounded somewhere in between a threat and a whimper before she took a running leap off the roof. Alarion’s strangled noise of concerned fright died in his mouth. He ran forward, hoping not to see a body.

A rush of relieved air escaped his lips as he noticed a smaller roof below him that had an easy access to a window. After glancing around for a moment, he shrugged and lowered himself down gently. The titles groaned under his weight so he quickly moved towards the window. To his relief, he found it ajar and leading towards a room full of brightly colored cushions and pillows.

As he slipped through the window his nose was greeted with the smell of fresh flowers. With the moonlight faintly casting through the window, only Alarion’s elven eyes allowed him to see anything of the room. From what little he could see, however, there was not a single bland color in the entirety of it. Plush rugs decorated the floor, soft beneath his bare feet. A long couch dotted with a large collection of pillows all bright.  The floor was a large cluster of a mess or various objects and décor, yet it didn’t seem to give off a ‘messy’ feel.

In all, Alarion felt a small smile flutter across his face. If the room looked this cozy and nice, he’d love to see it when the sunlight came streaming through all those windows.

With a quick glance to his left, he spotted a door that was slightly ajar. Candlelight, music, and loud chatter came from the other side. Though it seemed inviting, Alarion hesitated. After running and climbing through the chilly air and the correspondingly icy silence that accompanied it… Alarion wasn’t sure he was ready for the warmth of a tavern full of people. Biting his lip, he slowly turned towards the still open window. The outside was still there. He could just go back out.

The thought gave him shivers. Hugging himself, he glanced down at his arms, noting the long line of goosebumps. Maybe running around (gathering a sweat) in the freezing cold without any form of a jacket may not have been the best plan he had to date. Still, it was freeing and thoughtless. Exactly what he had needed.

Turning back towards the door, Alarion took a deep breath, attempting to bullying himself into going forward.  _It’s not like I have to talk to anyone if I don’t want to._

Just as he took a step toward, he heard a small ruffle behind him. He immediately froze before whipping his head around. Though his eyes scanned with prejudice, he was unable to spot anything. After wondering if he was imagining things, he remembered that small elf girl from the roof. She likely came through the window too. Maybe she was hiding somewhere in the dark, concealed in the shadows of the various items lying around?

Should he look for her?

Frowning, Alarion shook his head at his own thoughts. She had seemed terrified when she saw him. Why? It wasn’t like Alarion had done anything to her. Regardless of logic, it seemed almost cruel to go looking for someone that was frightened of him.

“I’m not sure if you’re in here or not,” Alarion said suddenly. Feeling self-conscious, he ran a hand through his hair. If he was imaging things, it probably looked very ludicrous to any passerby to see an elf talking to himself in the dark. “And if you are, you don’t have to come out if you don’t want to. Not sure exactly what I did, but I’m sorry if I scared you. I didn’t mean to. If you ever want, I’ll apologize to your face.” He gave a short laugh. “That is… if you’re in here at all. I could just be talking to myself.” He paused, hoping to hear some form of reply. When he got nothing, he gave a huff of a laugh again, running a hand through his hair again without thought. “Yup, probably talking to myself. I’m… I’m going to go.” He jerked a thumb towards the door. “You know… So I can stop talking to myself.”

Shaking his head, he walked out the door, feet barely making a sound against the wood below. The door led to a small hallway with candles and voices from every direction. He felt his body tense and hesitate before he shook his head. He had this. He could do this. It was just people!

Forcing himself forward, the elf wandered through the hallway that eventually turned to his right. From there, he had a perfect view of the floor below. There was a large group of dwarfs, elves, and humans wearing similar armor drinking and singing together. One, in particular, was being especially loud. When Alarion’s eyes landed on him they widened as his jaw dropped.

That was single-handily the largest person he had ever seen in his life! He sat on a stool, grey chest bare against his loose green flowing pants. Fully muscled skin flexed with every movement. Alarion tried to ignore the way his face lit up red. But that vanished in an instant as his eyes kept going up. His face was deeply scarred, located mainly around a single eyepatch. And from his head spouted two large horns, sharp and tall. Though his face was smiling and his voice booming, Alarion took a step away from the railing, hoping the man didn’t see him. The large booming laughter that followed his retreat certainly implied he hadn’t been noticed.

What in the Maker’s name  _was_  he?

Not downstairs then.

He looked around a little more, spotting steps leading upstairs as well. Seeing that very little people were paying him any attention (if any), he began towards the steps. Before going up, he noticed that it was significantly darker up there. That didn’t discourage him, however, and he kept climbing.

As he reached the top, he found it empty of almost anything except for a single chest and a small staircase leading to another door. It was empty but warm and still close enough for the music to drift up. Grinning, Alarion headed over to his right where the trunk was. Still beaming, he sunk down next to it, eyes closed, feet propped up on the chest, and back against the wall.

From there, he just focused on the fading music and the overlapping chatter of voices. The music especially though. It seemed to filter above the rest and engulf him entirely.

_Sera was never quite an agreeable girl—_

_Her tongue tells tales of rebellion._

_But she was so fast,_

_And quick with her bow,_

_No one quite knew where she came from._

_Sera was never quite the quietest girl—_

_Her attacks are loud and they're joyful._

_But she knew the ways of nobler men,_

_And she knew how to enrage them._

_She would always like to say,_

_"Why change the past,_

_When you can own this day?"_

_Today she will fight,_

_To keep her way._

_She's a rogue and a thief,_

_And she'll tempt your fate._

_Sera was never quite the wealthiest girl—_

_Some say she lives in a tavern._

_But she was so sharp,_

_And quick with bow—_

_Arrows strike like a dragon._

_Sera was never—_

“Hey you!” Once again, the voice came out of the darkness without warning. This time around, Alarion did fall as he yelped. His feet slide off as did so, hitting the back of his head on the wall. Wincing and rubbing it, he glanced up to see the same elf from before glaring at him in the candlelight.

“Ugh!” Her face scrunched up similar to that time a slave had been forced-fed a lemon. “Why are you so jumpy?”

“You surprised me.” Alarion grimaced. He stared at her for a second, debating if he should get up or not.

“Yeah, well, shut it!” She snapped, looking furious. “You shouldn’t be jumpy! You were never jumpy before!”

“Sorry?” Alarion shrugged, not sure what else to say to that.

“Shut that too!” She snapped, folding her arms. “I don’t wanna hear it!”

“What  _do_  you want me to say?” Alarion wasn’t sure if his curiosity or irritation came forward more.

“I dunno!” She kicked the chest, still lying near Alarion’s feet. “Stuff!” There was silence, but only for a moment before the elf glared at him again. “You’re not nothing, right?”

“I’m not… what?”

“Nothing!” She snarled, waving a hand about. “You know! Your memories or mind or  _some shite like that_ are nothing or something! I need to know that you’re not nothing too!”

“My memories? Oh… I,” He gulped, feeling the guilt and awkwardness rising by moment. “Um… I take it I knew you?”

The elf looked shattered for a moment, grief flashing across her stunned face before it turned straight back into anger. “That’s right, you little shit! We were friends! Fri- _ends_. Proper friends! You told me I was family!” She jabbed a finger at him, face twisted in what was undoubtedly fury. “ _‘Just like a sister’_. But did that stop you from going and getting your arse handed over to some shitheads? No!”

“Uh, I’m unsure–”

“No! Cause see it’s all my fault really. I didn’t want to go. All those elf-y elves all standing round talking elf-y things. Plus, the Free Marchers is shit. Skyhold was all nice and here, yeah?” Her eyes soften at this point, staring at him. “But then you were dead. I could’da watched your back, yeah? Stuck the baddies with arrows. But I didn’t. So people died. You died.”

Alarion watched in silence as she turned away before spinning back with her face back into a glare. “I’m done talking. Done. We’re going to get shitfaced instead.”

When she held out a hand to help him up, Alarion only hesitated for a moment before she hauled him to his feet with surprising strength. “Shitfaced?”

“Drunk, you daft man.” She rolled her eyes, heading towards the stairs.

“Ah, wait!” Alarion felt his body tense, unmoving. “I… um…”

The girl searched his face for a moment. “What? You forget how your legs work?”

“What? No! No, I,” he shook his head to avoid speaking at first. “I don’t want to be around a lot of people.”

“What? Frigging daft you! Rather spend your time up here where Creepy used to haunt? Ugh! Creepy that.”

Alarion shuffled his feet, not wanting to admit that the large man with the horns below scared him.

“Ugh. Fine! But we’re drinking in my room. Come on then, you.” The elf mumbled, glaring at him. Alarion, diligently, followed.  As he watched her stomp down the stairs, he couldn’t help but ask.

“Why are you angry with me?”

“Ugh, frigging daft you!” She shook her head, turning a corner and heading towards the door Alarion had left out of earlier. “Bull comes in all big-like asking about my latest Jenny stuff and how I was doing and shit. Knew something was up. So I told him to spit it out with some ale. He just asks about how I was doin’ with you being dead and all. I told him to shut it and shove it up his ass. I was fine and just  _didn’t want to talk about it_! But then he says how he’s learned a secret, yeah? A real big one. And I thought it’d help Red Jenny stuff and shit. So I told him to spit it out, big guy. Turns out the secret was you being alive. If he had been lyin’, I would’ve shot him full of arrows! Then, then he wasn’t lying, I figured this was good news, yeah? Dots being alive and all. So why look so down?

“Well, turns out that the Qunari or those Tevinter bastards did something to yer head to make you forget all about me and Skyhold and the Inquisition and all that rubbish! And I figured that meant you were dead anyway, right? No memories and all. And if you were dead but still walking about, then meant you were nothing on the inside.” She shuddered before opening the door now in front of them. “So then I saw how you didn’t know who I am. Yer eyes were so wide. You looked empty. So I got scared and ran, yeah? But then you followed me through the window and all. You didn’t see me, but I was watching you. Even when you first came through with Creepy I was watching you.

“You didn’t know who I was, but you still were worried about me. So I wanted to make sure you weren’t  _nothing_. Like, maybe, you do know who I am. But you don’t! And you’re also not nothing! Ugh! You make my brain hurt.”

“I... I don’t think I understood that. Really at all.”

“Shut it!” The girl snapped. Angrily, she lit a lantern and the room was cast in a flickering candle glow. Without looking at him, she began to rummage through a trunk on the ground. “I told you that I’m done talking! Why are you still talking?”

Alarion debated about pointing out that she had said quite a good deal while he only spoke a few sentences, but decided against it. “Can I get your name?” He asked instead.

“Sera. Now shut it and drink.” With that, she turned around and thrust a vial of some unknown liqueur into his hands and took a long swing from hers. Shrugging, Alarion figured he didn’t have anything to lose. He sat down on a cushion and took a long drink as well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were three scenes I had in mind when I began to write this story.
> 
> 1\. Dorian finding Alarion in the market.  
> 2\. Cole wondering what he did wrong to make Alarion forget him.  
> 3\. Sera yelling curses at Alarion while on the roof of the tavern.
> 
> For those wondering, I believe that this is around half-way through this story. Anyone figure out how Alarion lost his memories yet? :) Most of the hints are in Chapter 17.


	29. Chapter 29

Never let it be said that Dorian Pavus wasn’t capable of showing restraint. When he had been convinced that Alarion had simply had too much thrown at him and had run off into the mountains, Cole had convinced him to let Alarion go. Though he wanted nothing more than to mount the search himself, Dorian had conceded after Cole promised him that Alarion had no intention to run away. Still, he remained up in his room, too nervous to even drink. Mostly he spent his time wondering how much Josephine would mind if he set that hideously tacky cabinet on fire.

When Bull knocked on his door telling him that Alarion was piss-drunk with Sera up in her room, he had almost laughed in his face. Poor Sera, from what he heard, had never accepted Alarion’s death. She locked herself in her room and had refused to come out even when Blackwall showed up for the funeral. No one managed to get her out and Maker only knows how she ate. When she finally emerged, she refused to speak a word to anyone about Alarion and either threatened them with arrows, ignored them,  _actually_  shot arrows at them, or ran away whenever anyone brought him up. But he had grumbled his retorts and headed towards the tavern anyway.

As the door gave with a small push, the tavern looked nigh empty save the scattered souls snoring on tables, or complaining as a sour-faced Cabot hit them with a broom. Dorian chuckled as he recognized a few Chargers amiss the groaning bodies.

Without having to think about it, his feet led him up the stairs and towards Sera’s room. Only the Maker knew how many times he had taken this exact trip to go spend either the night drinking with Sera or to grab said elf to take her on a mission.

The familiar walk didn’t end as it usually did. Instead, Dorian hesitated as he saw the door. During those months of grieving at Mae’s house, Varric sent him a lot of letters. Most were just concerned messages from a friend, others were reminders that Alarion had a lot of people that cared about him so Dorian wasn’t alone, but a few were subtle guilt trips that Dorian could help comfort and be comforted by coming back to Skyhold if only for a little while. The one he most mentioned in his letters was Sera and how she could probably use some support right about now just as much as Dorian. But Dorian, in his grief and anger, had really forgotten that there were others in this world that also cared for Alarion.

Only now did he understand what Varric was saying. Sera likely needed someone to just simply sit there and not ask anything. And, likely, she would’ve only trusted someone like Dorian wouldn’t have wanted to talk about it. Dorian could have found a balm to his wound the same way Sera could’ve found hers.

Dear Maker, he failed her too, didn’t he?

Resolving to face it head on, Dorian strolled forward with his chin up high. As he approached the door, he heard giggling on the other end belonging to two familiar voices. As the door swung open, he saw that both elves were seated on Sera’s cushion couch bed. Each clutched a large bottle, gripping them tightly as they drank deeply. Alarion kept seeming to miss his mouth, however, and the vial top kept hitting him on the cheek. Sera was giggling at him, trying to help direct it, but her lack of current motor skills seemed to be making it worse. It didn’t seem to deter the two and they continued this with giggles filling the air.

Realizing they hadn’t actually noticed Dorian had entered, the mage cleared his throat loud enough to be heard. 

“Dorian!” Alarion’s eyes widened at him, giving him a dizzy smile. His voice slurred as he spoke, higher pitched, and over pronounced. “Have you  _tried_  dis shtfuff?” He lifted the vial, arm swaying. As he spoke next, his nose scrunched up making lines on his face. “It tasted horrid at first, but now Idon’tevennotich!”

Sera joined in with his laughter. “Dots here,” she swayed into Alarion as she gestured at him, barely staying upright as her words slurred together so badly it was hard to understand. “He... He... Um, wazz I sayin’?”

Dorian wrestled down a laugh before settling on a small glare on his face. “Sera, I have never seen you this drunk before. If there a woman who can drink her liquor it’s the one that lives in taverns.”

Sera smirked at him while managing to jut her chin out despite her clear drunkenness. “I’stole it from Bull. His mama-whatevers. Didn’t notishe, smug spy arse.”

He very much doubted Bull hadn’t noticed Sera selling his liquor, Ben-Hassrath and all, but decided that he shouldn’t point that out. Instead, he turned to Alarion who was again trying to aim the bottle to his lips. “Perhaps you’ve had enough,  _amatus_.”

“Why’s y’ call ‘im that?” Sera mumbled, bottle rolling in her hands as her eyes drooped. “Y's only called Dots that.”

“He  _is_  Alarion.” Dorian snapped immediately. “How dare you –”

But he stopped short as Sera glanced up at him. He could see the bags under her eyes and strain of stress on her face. He couldn’t continue.

Shaking his head, he forced himself to bite down his flush of fury. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t thought himself, plus Sera was still grieving, trying to understand, and was currently severely drunk. “I apologize, Sera.” He huffed.

“Arse,” Sera responded. “Whatcha doin’ here anyways?”

“I,” Alarion declared, hiccupped, then continued. “Ran away.”

At that, Sera let out a snort and soon the two elves were falling laughing onto themselves.

Dorian shook his head. “Come on, then. Let’s get you some water before bed.”

Alarion perked up at that, grinning at him. “I like you and water!” He declared. “Cause  _‘I have you’_  and all.”

_“I have you,_ amatus _!”_ Echoed through his mind. Hoping his cheeks weren’t reddening, Dorian cleared his throat. “Let’s not try to drown again anytime soon, yes?”

“Don’t matter.” Alarion hiccupped. “Cause-cause… you’d be there to sav-v-ve me if I did, right?”

Now desperately hoping that Alarion won’t notice his red cheeks, Dorian coughed into a fist. “Yes, quite. But I’d rather you not risk it,  _amatus_.”

“You protected me.” He slurred back. “That was  _sooooo_  sweet.” The man blinked, tears suddenly welling up in his eyes. “No one’s evera done that for me. Ya put me first…”

Before Dorian could even begin to comprehend the words he just heard to formulate a reply, Sera yelped and said, “No, no, no, no! Yer doin’ it wrong!” She reached forward and forced her bottle down Alarion’s throat, likely hitting his teeth with the bottle. “Drink ‘til you don’t cry!”

Sighing, Dorian stepped forward and wrestled the bottle out of Sera’s hands. She put up as much resistance as one would expect from a very small and drunk elf could before falling on the ground in a fit of giggles. Shaking his head, Dorian took a gulp for courage. It was the first bit of alcohol he had since just before he had talked to Alarion back in Tevinter. And it was  _repulsive_.  _This_ was that swill that Bull drank?

Gagging, he pulled the bottle away from himself so he won’t even have to smell it. “ _How_  did you two manage to drink so much?”

“I told you!” Alarion declared. “Youdon’t taste it afterawhile.”

“I must reacquaint you with a good Tevinter wine.”

His eyes widened. “Alcohol can taste good?”

Holding down a laugh, Dorian gave him a smile (that perhaps was just a tad too sincerely fond) before gently bending down to face him properly from where he sat on the couch. “I’ll show you. But another time. You already have had too much tonight.”

“Huh. S-Sera said that,” hiccup, “I didn’t have enough.”

“He hasn’t!” Sera declared, still on her back on the ground. With her feet still on the couch, she kicked at Alarion and Dorian. “Yer still talkin’! Drink!”

Diligently, Alarion attempted to bring the bottle to his lips, but, with a sigh, Dorian took it from him. “Hey!” Alarion protested. “That’s mine!”

“You’ve had enough,  _amatus_.”

“Hehe.” Alarion chuckled before, with no warning, launched himself forward. With a small noise of surprise, Dorian dropped the two bottles so he could properly catch the bloody elf. His heart soared to have him in his arms again, even if it was only for a second. “I’m back.” He sang.

“Y-you’re back.” Dorian agreed, thoughts becoming hard to grasp with the knowledge that his elf was hugging him.

Alarion gave a content sigh. He opened his mouth to say something but was overwritten as Sera let out a shout of anger. “You dropped the mama-whatevers! Ass!”

Dorian let out only a grunt as the elf kicked him in the shins. Despite her small size, it hurt. “It is good to see you again, too, Sera. Perhaps we can talk tomorrow?”

“No more talkin’!” Sera grunted. “Only drinkin’.”

“Quite. Do get some sleep. Your hangover will be legendary.”

“Not if I stay drunk.” She declared reaching for one of the spilled bottles.

“I’ll send some water up to you.”

Carefully, Dorian shifted the elf in his arms so that he could drag him a little easier. Now with a single thin arm thrown over his shoulder, Dorian’s only discomfort was the fact that the elf was nearly a head shorter than he was, even whilst the mage was slouching to accommodate. “Come along, then,  _amatus_ , let’s get you to bed.”

“Am I sleeping in a bed now?” Alarion asked as Dorian slowly began to pull him forward. “Wha happened to my ham… hamma… my hammock?”

“It is back on Isabela’s ship. You’re at Skyhold now.”

“Oh yeah.”

As they finished the stairs and headed out of the door, Alarion glanced up at the night sky. “Stars are so pretty.”

“Quite,” Dorian said, taking him closer to steps that lead to the main hall.

“I bet-I bet I knew  _loads_  about stars.” Before Dorian could respond, Alarion managed to wiggle out of his grasp. Before Dorian’s panic could mount, it stopped as the elf seemly only moved so he could gesture with two hands towards the statue at the base of the stairs. “Before I died, I mean. I bet I knew  _loads_  about stars.”

Heart twisting, Dorian bit his lip. Slowly and ever so deliberately, he glanced up at the statue’s face, craved to near utter perfection. It had his  _vallaslin_ and even the smallest of his scars. His chest continued to hurt.

“Look here, Dorian!” The elf ran forward, slightly tripping over himself. He collapsed before he could make it to the plaque that laid at the statue’s feet. It took actual effort, but Dorian forced his legs forward until he stood next to Alarion while on the ground. He couldn’t look at either the man or the statue. All he was capable of was staring at a mud clump and gritting his teeth. “I can read now, but the words are dancing. What does it say?”

Dorian shut his eyes before glancing down to read, “ _Neither hero or god; just an elf wanting to do the right thing. Alarion Lavellan. Dragon Age 9:43_.”

Alarion nodded, gesturing he wanted to stand. Rolling his eyes, Dorian once again hauled the elf to his feet and started up the stairs just as the man began to sing. “ _My_  statue. I got a statu- u-u-u-u-ue.”

“Come on. We’re getting you into bed.”

“Bed. Bed-bed-bed. Bed-dy, bed, bed,” he happily sang. “I’m going to bed.”

“Yes. Quite.”

“Are you going to bed too?”

“Ideally, yes.”

“Oh good!” The elf instantaneously relaxed, earning him a chastised click of Dorian’s tongue as he struggled to keep him from falling over and down the hall steps they just passed. “Sometimes… cause see sometimes… I get nightmares. And when I do, I wonder what it’d be like if I had someone there to help, I dunno, hug the nightmares away?” He giggled, burying his head into Dorian’s shoulder. “I think it’ll be a lot easier if you’re there!”

Dorian halted exactly at the entrance to the gardens. A distant part of himself warned him that Alarion would be able to feel him shaking. But he couldn’t stop. He shut his eyes, face screwing in pain. Too many memories of holding him through drowsy panic attacks. A hand brushing through his messy brown hair, whispering words of comfort alongside a light-hearted,  _“How am to get any of my beauty rest with you around,_ amatus _?”_

_“Good thing you’re already beautiful, ma’arla.”_

No.

Not now.

Maker, not right now. Not while Alarion was leaning on him, face so close to his neck.

It was just too damn much.

“Please,” Dorian whispered, begging for the elf to stop, even if he would not know what Dorian meant with such simple wording. Without knowing what else to do, Dorian began forward again, hoping the action would help keep the memories at bay.

“You smell  _so_ good, Dorian.” The elf slurred. “Like, like… like books and vanilla. Old me was  _so_  lucky to have you.”

He had to take a deep breathe so his tone wouldn’t come out snappy. “You still have me, you dolt.”

“Course I don’t,” he mumbled. “Can’t remember you.”

“I had noticed that, yes.”

“Wish I could,” he continued, voice so soft that Dorian could barely hear him, even if his face pressed so close to his. “Really do.”

“I… I know.”

Carefully, Dorian began to haul the elf up the steps. As he did, he was once again struck with how much  _lighter_  the elf was than he remembered him being. His stomach did a twisted and he wondered if there was a way to make sure the elf was eating more without it seeming like he was mothering him.

The twist seemed to only grow tighter until it had a vice grip on his gut. It quite felt like being stabbed.

They came onto the room on the very end without much issue. As Dorian grabbed the handle, the elf suddenly straightened as his eyes went wide. “Wait! Wait, please wait!”

Obediently, Dorian removed his hand from the doorknob. He glanced at the smaller man who took a few gulps. Then, he gave a sharp nod. “Okay. Okay, I’m ready now.”

Slowly, Dorian reached forward, keeping a close eye on the elf. He had some inkling as to what made Alarion so nervous. The man hated empty space, no matter how large or small. The first time he had taken a drunk Alarion to his room was before they had ever slept together. Back before Dorian knew that Alarion didn’t want him for just some fun. Alarion had gotten  _very_  drunk (off of, if memory serves, the, uh, ‘mama-whatevers’ he shared with Bull) and had found his way to Dorian’s room. He had to drag the man back to his room (with all those stairs) so the hens would have less to gossip about. On the way up to his room, he had said, “ _I hate that place. So much room available just shows how alone I am.”_

Perhaps, even without memories, Alarion still disliked being indoors alone.

As if sensing his thoughts, Alarion whispered, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Dorian couldn’t respond. The pain was clogging up his throat.

They began forward. The elf compiled and was easily lowered onto the bed. Hoping his face wasn’t betraying how ridiculous Dorian knew he looked, he carefully tucked the elf in.

Before he had a chance to turn and leave, one of Alarion’s hand shot out of the blanket and took hold of his wrist. The grip was likely as strong as the elf could muster, but Dorian was bluntly aware that a small yank would free him.

Dorian Pavus knew pain.

He knew what it was like to be grabbed by a ten-foot giant and thrown like a rag doll through the air. The collision felt as if an earthquake had erupted in his chest. The broken ribs made every sharp inhale he could breathe almost too painful to bear. He had remained in wretched agony, just on the brink of conscious. The anguish paralyzing him, too weak to do anything but watch as the giant turned his attention towards the small archer. The helplessness of it was just as foul as the wounds.

He knew pain.

But this moment? With Alarion staring at him with such terror in his face. The helpless feeling visible in every tear froze at the edges of his eyes. The knife from before twisted more, threatening to destroy him from the inside.

Worst of all: the awareness of the situation bellowed in his mind and thumped against his ribcage.

Alarion was begging him to stay.

He had to close his eyes.

Alarion had always asked him to stay. The desire for him not to leave his side every noble party they attended together, Skyhold or not; regardless of what rumors it brought.

The tug on his wrist when Dorian would pull away while they were having a moment, too aware of what it looked like for those watching. Not forcing but asking.

His words were always imploring the nights (before Dorian began to consider the room they shared  _theirs_ ) when Dorian would leave to help prevent rumors. The look on Alarion’s face the first morning they shared; so happy that there were tears.

Every night for weeks, Alarion would beg Dorian to stay. Sometimes with words, sometimes with just a hold on his wrist.

Alarion had always had to been the one to ask him to stay. It hadn’t mattered that Dorian had  _wanted_  to stay as well. He had to be the bigger person. Protect the Inquisitor from the rumors that he didn’t understand had the power to destroy the Inquisition. Always protect the Inquisitor, no matter the cost to Dorian.

_“I’m here. I’ll protect you.”_

The only time in their lives Alarion hadn’t asked for Dorian to stay was when Dorian told him his plans to return to Tevinter. There was pride in Alarion’s gaze alongside the grief, but it was clear he was truly and genuinely supportive.

He hadn’t asked Dorian to stay. He had asked to come with him.

But it had been and  _still was_  more important to keep Alarion safe than it was for Dorian to stay happy.

_That’s_  what caused the most pain to Dorian. Alarion was asking him to stay, but protecting him meant leaving. Come morning, Alarion would not be happy to have him here. No alcohol in his system meant he would be terrified to see Dorian remained. He opened his eyes. The best thing, the right thing, was to leave now before his will floundered and he would lose the ability to refuse those large, wet, calf eyes.

Alarion took a small inhale, still staring at him. When he spoke, his voice came out like a gulp, wavering in the middle. “Please.”

Dorian swallowed, forcing tears down. This was too much. Surely no physical wound he had ever felt had been this painful. It felt like his first night after Leliana told him the news. Too sharp, too hard to breathe, empty missing gap inside of him. It was if he was back in that moment of grief; only now he had to look at his  _amatus’_  face and tell him he would be leaving.

Opening his mouth, Dorian immediately closed it before he could make a sound. He shut his eyes, hoping the blackness would envelope him and he would be free from this torture. He had to tell him no. He had to tell him he was leaving.

Again.

He. He couldn’t do it. He was a weak,  _weak_  man. Maker forgive him but Dorian knew his worse fault was his tendency towards temptation, but not even knowing that could make up for his inability to do the right thing.

Without opening his eyes, he used his free hand grabbed ahold of the chair he knew was behind him. The chair made a loud noise as Dorian dragged it across the stone below. Slowly, he sat down before a deep breathe gave him enough courage to see what Alarion’s reaction was.

The edges of his eyes had little wrinkles, pushed up by his mouth. Small tears were falling, but it didn’t deter from his warm eyes glittering at him.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Dorian nodded, shutting his eyes again so he wouldn’t have to face Alarion.

The elf’s grip loosened so he could instead hold his hand.

Dorian could feel Alarion’s hand relaxing as the man’s breathing began to deepen. He told himself that he would leave the moment the elf fell asleep.

Warm tears began to fall onto his lap, but his shaking shoulders remained quiet. He couldn’t say that he didn’t care that Alarion had the chance to see him so weak because he very much wanted nothing more than to flee the room. The only thing that kept his ass in that seat was an overwhelming awareness that he no longer had the will or strength to leave.

He truly was a weak,  _weak_  man.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Dorian's wrong about why Alarion is distressed to go inside. Memory-Alarion hated indoors for the reason he mentioned. Memory-less Alarion didn't want to go inside because it reminded up of being back in that safe house in Tevinter.
> 
> Sorry it's late! Life is finally settling down now that my move is over and I finally have wi-fi again! The next chapter will be up in a week.
> 
> Have a great day everyone! Thanks for reading! :D

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr!  
> <https://nightwingspark.tumblr.com/>  
> Along with nerdy posts, writing posts, and general randomness, I'll be posting a lot of deleted scenes from this particular fic. Also, I will be accepting any writing prompts and answering any asks. Please drop on by! I love hearing from you guys.


End file.
